Chance
by oasisdreamer
Summary: "The CIA is giving you the opportunity to live a normal life. You boys are going to high school." Zach and the boys go to Roseville to experience high school for the first time. Cammie is a normal girl with special abilities who resents Zach for his charming ways and for their differences. But her life is soon about to change when three men come to collect her from her door.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

It hurt.

The pain: that's the first thing that hits me as I fall backwards.

The sounds: the familiar rattle tattle of machine gunfire reverberating through the earth.

Red: bright and warm seeping through my clothes, staining my skin.

The light: the harsh white of flashlights illuminating the night sky.

The pain: the bullet that has ruptured my skin, punching a hole in my body.

My brain clouds over with a sweet white fog as I desperately cling onto consciousness. The pain was overwhelming; it was so hard to bear.

"Zach!"

A male voice shouts to the left, twisting a familiar pang of desperation in my heart. I turn my head to the side, my hands fisting in the earth beneath me in pain as I strain my neck to look at the man. Figures swim in my vision, but I can make him out, running to me wildly. His helmet was off, his Kevlar was bullet ridden and ripped; yet he was still running at me amid the gunfire. I can see his bright blue eyes through the darkness of the night. They were locked onto me. He stoops down to me, grabbing my hand in his warm one, clenching through his teeth as pulls back my clothes to reveal the wound. The warmth from him radiates through me bringing slight relief to my cold body.

"Stay with me, please Zach, stay with me," he says agonisingly, he looks so sad and angry, his eyes welling up with tears. I look at him fondly, of all the years I known him for, Grant Morgan never cried once. I try to speak to him, to tell him everything will be all right, but the pain is too much, and my body isn't obeying my brain anymore. The need and want for sleep washes over me, my eyes drooping with every breath I take. Maybe all this pain would go away if I just close my eyes, just for a while. I just want to sleep, for this all to end. The shouts from Grant fade into the distance and the darkness beckons to me, welcoming me with open arms. Maybe this is what it feels like to die.

My name is Zach Goode. I am a CIA agent, 17 years old, living in Arlington, Virginia. Last week, I was shot in the stomach on a successful mission in Cuba and now I am recovering at home with my parents. We aren't a normal family, far from it. My parents are famous CIA agents, who have saved the country on many numerous occasions: Joe and Catherine Goode. I have three siblings, an older brother and sister, and a younger brother, all who are either agents for the CIA or who are training to be. Since I was born, I have been subjected to the spy life, surrounded by the promise of protection and the importance of secrecy. I adore it. So, at the age of 10, I was recruited into the training system and started my dream life. I love the thrill of the adventure, the feeling of adrenaline pumping through your veins at 100mph, the triumph at outsmarting the enemy, and the satisfaction of saving lives. But this, this was the worst part of being a spy: the recovery part. I hate the waiting, the sitting around doing nothing, the loneliness and the unbearable want to do something. I have been off duty for a total of two weeks now, and it is killing me to know that I still have another week to go.

* * *

A beer can flies in from my right, my trained reflexes allowing me to catch it easily. "Thanks," I mutter, looking up to Callum, my older brother. He had just come home from a mission in North Korea and is on leave for a week.

"Ugh, you are so depressing to be around now Zach," he grumbles, sitting now on the kitchen barstool next to me, popping open a can of beer next to me, "you have free time! You can be a normal teenager for three weeks and yet you just sit around doing nothing all day, its pathetic."

I throw my hands up in the air exasperatedly and gesture to my bare chest, my finger pointing to my gauze covered side. "Cal, I have just been shot! I can do nothing, I can barely put a top on and you expect me to be all happy smiles and laughing! I am a spy, it is in my nature to keep busy, not to sit around all day, watch TV and drink beer like you!"

Callum just looks at me angrily, his green eyes glinting accusingly in the light. I sigh, dropping my head into my hands. I know he has had his fair share of injuries and recovery time, and right now I know am just being selfish, but this whole thing just pisses me off so much. "I'm sorry," my voice sounds muffled. I look back up at him, and smile slightly, "I just hate doing nothing." Cal's expression turns from angry to one of understanding. I watch as he stands up and ruffles my hair, making it now look more like a bird's nest.

"Don't worry little bro, you'll be back in the field in no time." He walks out of the kitchen, beer in hand humming away to some random song I haven't heard before. I sigh loudly, and start to open my beer, "yeah, I hope so."

The pain in my side has now subsided into a dull ache, but the dressings still need to be changed daily. I slowly pull the gauze away from my body, revealing inch by inch the red skin underneath. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and assess the wound tilting my head to the side in thought. It looks like a large cigarette burn on my skin, the area around it still red and angry looking. I have had my fair share of gun wounds, but most of them have been mainly flesh wounds, nothing as severe as this. The doctors said that if the bullet entry wound was 5mm lower, it would have ruptured my vital organs and caused all sorts of problems probably resulting in either death or a life filled with rehabilitation and therapy. Either scenario would have left me unable to be a spy, which is just a depressing thought. My skin looks pasty yet slightly tan from my time in Cuba. My eyes look bloodshot and I have purple bags under my eyes. I look a sight.

"Yo Z!" Cal's voice enters from the doorway. I turn around and suddenly a Nerf bullet hits me straight in the chest, falling to the ground. I groan in annoyance, but also in anticipation for revenge as I look at Cal whose face is twisted into an evil, smug smirk. I take a menacing step forward, the promise of a Nerf gun war sending the welcome adrenaline thrumming through my veins.

He waves the large plastic gun in the air temptingly, "so," he drawls, "you up for it bro? Little Nerf gun battle to spice up your life? I promise I will go easy on you, considering you got shot by a real bullet… " Cal rambles on in an attempt to distract me as I see him subtly reload the gun. I stop advancing and I throw my hands up in mock exasperation a smirk on my face, "will you shut up already?"

As soon as I finish talking, I lunge forward, tackling Cal to the ground, wrestling the gun away from his hands. My side is aching in protest, but I cannot deny the exhilarating feeling of sparring with Cal. Although he is taller and bigger, I manage to pin him down with the force of the tackle, pushing the air out of him as we roll about on the floor. He tries to avoid my side by pushing my chest and shoulders as I desperately cling onto the plastic gun. I can't stop laughing, I haven't had this much fun in a long time, and just messing around with Cal is shooting up my mood, even though I know he is holding out on me. I prise one of my hands away from his grip and move it to his hair, pulling mercilessly on it as Cal emits a groan of pain. "You sly little…" he hisses, but I suddenly feel a hail of Nerf bullets hit my back and I can see that some hit Cal as well. My face twists in confusion, the gun is in Cal's hand, no way could he have shot me in the back and himself.

Wafts of perfume hits my nose and I sigh defeated as I watch Cal's face fall with shame, looking a bit sheepish.

"Boys." I turn my head around to see mum holding a mega Nerf machine gun in her hand, her finger pressed dangerously close to the trigger. "Stop." I roll off Cal so that I lie on the ground; he lets out sigh of relief as I move off him. But that soon stops as another hail of bullets hit him in the chest and legs.

"Ah mum! Hold on, we stopped!" shouts Cal, his hands raised up in surrender as he lifts himself up off the ground. I smile at mum who is trying really hard not to laugh; she is a world-class spy yet she still cannot control her emotions when it comes to dealing with us. Her stormy grey eyes flicker over to me and my smile falters as an evil grin crosses her face. I know what is coming next; it's my turn to get an ass whooping.

"Woah mum, don't get too trigger happy!" I jump up off the floor raising my hands up like Cal in surrender. We grin at each other, mimicking each other's pose whilst mum points a Nerf gun at us like a firing squad; the irony and humour was not lost on me.

"Cal," Mum adopts a stern tone as she stares us down, "Ali is waiting downstairs for you; if you don't move your lazy butt off the landing, I doubt she will stay here any longer." At the mention of Ali, Cal's face lit up. Ali is a number of things depending on whom you ask. According to Cal, she is his best friend, no more. To mum, she is an angel. To dad, she is a saint. To me and the rest of the world, she is Cal's unofficial girlfriend. In my opinion, Cal is just too uptight and proud to have a girlfriend, even though he cares deeply about Ali. He says its because he isn't ready for the commitment, in other words, he doesn't want to drop his playboy ways.

"Score!" Cal grins at me before running down the stairs. "You can deal with mum!" he shouts, right before mum shoots him dead centre on his left butt cheek. He turns around accusingly and to which mum shrugs, "finger slipped, sorry baby." Cal throws his hands up in exasperation as he continues to walk down the stairs muttering to himself under his breath.

"Hi mum," I say cheerfully, hoping not to get shot. "How was the paperwork today?" I ask with a grin, I know how much of a pain post-mission paperwork is from experience. Mum hates it with a passion, as shown in the evil glare she gives me at the mention of it.

"Terrible, horrific, excruciating, I could go on for days explaining the pain. But speaking of the office, the Director wants to see you." My face falls with surprise. The Director? Mum must have noticed my expression, "I know, it surprised me also. I don't know what he wants with you. Are you sure Cuba went to plan and everything was shut down?"

I nod my head, running my memories back to the mission. "Yeah… Yeah definitely, apart from the end fight when everyone got beaten black and blue but everything ran smoothly. We didn't bust our covers until necessary and the extraction worked perfectly." I groan when I face the realization that I need to actually get dressed to go to the Pentagon and make myself presentable. Too much effort needed. "This is bull."

* * *

The Pentagon. It's technically the headquarters of the United States Department of Defense, but the CIA like to stake their own claim at the five-sided building. The DoD do kick up a fuss because technically we do not fall under the DoD and we have our own headquarters in Langley, but who wouldn't want a piece of the Pentagon to themselves? We are the only independent US intelligence agency and we kick more ass than the whole of DoD combined. As you can imagine, there is a whole lot of bad blood between us. As I walk through the blinding white corridors I catch the accusing stares of men and women in black suits. They would all make wonderful slender men with their blank poker faces, the identical black aviators, the black suit and tie, I kind of feel out of place here in my black ripped jeans and white tee. When I said earlier that I needed to make myself presentable, jeans and a t-shirt is somewhat presentable in the CIA. We aren't as uptight as these men in black. The Pentagon is an architectural beauty. I mean seriously, the building is humongous, but it is designed so that it always takes less than five minutes to walk from any one point to another. I walk through the maze of indistinguishable corridors, ignoring the questioning and disapproving looks I receive. My eyes dart to the left, to another corridor, and lock onto a certain hot brunette, leaning almost seductively over a water fountain, her deep blue eyes flickering over to me, smiling enticingly. Her pinstripe suit hugs her curves deliciously, her perfect white teeth gleaming in her million-dollar smile.

"You have the subtlety of a hand grenade." I whip my head around to find Grant approaching, and grin at him guiltily. "You have the look about you like a boy who has had his hand caught in the cookie jar."

I shrug my shoulders, "man, look at her! She's a beauty. Are you telling me you wouldn't even try?"

Let me introduce you to Grant Morgan, my 'brother from another mother', my wingman, my backup, my best friend. I have known Grant for as long as I can remember. I was born exactly three and a half minutes after Grant and we have been tight ever since. His parents are also highly recognised agents in the CIA, Matthew and Rachael Morgan and he's the only kid, which makes me his brother in a way. Grant Morgan is a huge player, he's a bang and dash kinda guy oozing with self-confidence and assurance. And what can I say, I learnt from the best. "I wouldn't touch that with a ten foot barge pole." I stop walking in shock. Never have I ever seen Grant his nose up at a girl looking like this. Grant turns around and grins knowingly, "mate, she is FBI." I groan in frustration. No way is CIA allowed to mix with FBI, its an unspoken rule, no matter how hot the fish in the other pond are.

"How good is your source?" I ask hopefully.

"Impeccable."

"Damn."

"Yep."

"Do you not have any means of telling the time or are you both just downright stupid?" Preston Winters everyone. And the laughing skinny black haired guy to the left of him is Jonas Anderson, probably the cleverest teenager to ever grace these halls. Imagine a typical nerd; add a splash of dork and a brain that could rival Einstein and you will get Jonas. Preston Winters is the complete opposite. He is the son of the American ambassador in England, which gives him his funny accent and his mammoth bank account that comes in handy sometimes when on the run from people trying to kill you. He is what girls would say, 'ruggedly beautiful'. I don't know what the hell that means, but even my sister calls him that and it doesn't help his oversized ego one bit.

"We aren't that late, I'm sure Joe won't even notice," Grant says whilst clapping Jonas on the shoulder.

"Oh, he knows," says a familiar feminine voice. Enter Abby Cameron, the co-director of the CIA alongside Joe Solomon. "And can I just say boys, what a treat he has in store for you!" At the hint of her sarcastic tone my smile falls off my face.

"Aunt Abby, what did we do this time?" implores Grant and even from here I can tell he is worried about Solomon's so called treat. Joe when he is happy with you, can be the best man on the earth, but if you disappoint him or anger him, you are put in the dog house for weeks on end, your days filled with punishment laps, paperwork, coffee making, newbie trainings, the list of pointless jobs continues forever. I swear he has a book filled with these punishments just so he can make them different each time by picking them out by random. It honestly wouldn't surprise me.

"You did nothing wrong Scout don't worry. Just go in, have fun, don't piss him off and you might still have all ten fingers by the end of it." And with that closing statement, Abby Cameron, the famous CIA agent threw us a cheeky wave and ambled down the corridor away from us leaving us dreading what lay behind the mahogany double doors.

In the past sixty years or so, the Director's office hadn't changed at all, and the current sees no reason to break the tradition. A large oak table sits in the middle of the spacious room and in the large chair behind it sits Joe Solomon's imposing person. Though his face presents a hard façade, I could see his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. His fingers are steepled as his gaze wanders across us. We stand in a row, Preston, Grant myself then Jonas, our backs straight and our eyes never making contact with his. Although Joe Solomon is like a father figure to us, no way are we dumb enough to look into his eyes when he is angry. That's just asking for a death sentence politely.

"It has come to my attention that you are coming towards the age of 18. And it has also come to my attention that none of you have really experienced a normal life." I almost snort at the words normal. Of course none of us are normal, we started training to become spies since we were 10. Of course, Jonas and Preston have experienced some semblance of normality coming from a non-spy family, but how can you be classed as normal if you have an iQ larger than Stephan Hawking and if you can count to hundred in seven different languages whilst diffusing a bomb with a pair of tweezers.

"Sir, what do you class as normal?" asks Jonas, the question on everyone's minds.

"Well, you know. You boys haven't experienced the pleasures of high school, the worries of normal teenagers. The biggest worry of a spy is whether or not they will live to see the next day. Whereas, a normal seventeen year old boy would worry about what to wear that day, or whether they will win their football match." To be honest, I prefer my worries. I don't want to deal with high school crap. I've seen it in movies, that's enough exposure to the living nightmare that is school for me.

"Sir, where are you going with this," I ask worriedly, somehow I get the feeling that this is the treat Abby was talking about.

"The CIA is giving you the opportunity to live a normal life. You boys are going to high school."

* * *

**AN: Welcome! Hi there and thanks for reading. I should be updating weekly, but maybe not for the first few chapters, just so I can get into the swing of things. For my regular readers, don't worry, I will be continuing with ****_New Beginnings_****. But hey, give this one a chance and I would love to hear about what you guys think of it. So review and follow, just press those buttons below and I'll see you the next chapter! x**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

"Cameron Ann Morgan, if you don't get your butt out of bed this instant, I will be forced to take unnecessary painful measures against you!"

I groan and roll onto my side, pull my duvet up and tuck it under my head. It's my favourite method of blocking Jane out; I call it 'the cocoon'. Mornings plus Cammie equals bad. I just don't do mornings, I have an allergic reaction to them where I shut down and become a zombie. And as soon as my plan to dominate the world finally comes into place, I will be able to force schools to start in the afternoon, and for mornings to be a sacred period of time dedicated to rest, recuperation and beauty sleep. Yes, I have thought this through, and yes it is pretty lame, but my morning brain is the part that is disconnected from the rest of the normally functioning brain, therefore I have an excuse.

"Unleash the Dylan".

Ok that's it, I'm getting up, no way am I gonna be subjected to 'the Dylan' at 7:30 in the morning. I leap out of bed in a flourish, just before a little boy bursts through the door, brandishing a plastic sword and wearing an ill-fitting helmet.

"Ahhhh, be afraid!" This is Dylan. My annoying slash sometimes-lovable six-year-old stepbrother. Now would be the best time to say that I'm an orphan, living with my foster parents, who six years ago, in a burst of happiness and joy produced this little kid whose life mission nowadays is to make my life as horrible as possible. And yet I still manage to like him. My name is Cameron, but because its both a boy and girls name, I call myself Cammie, which is way more feminine and fully asserts the fact that I am a girl. My parents died the day after I was born in a car crash where I was the only survivor. After a year of being pinged around several orphanages, I finally found myself at the Smith residence. John and Jane Smith became my parents and they have been for as long as I can remember. I love them; they are all I've ever known. At this precise moment in time, here I am, standing in my bedroom looking incredibly dishevelled, warily watching Dylan hop about on his feet, trying to look intimidating but failing and producing a rather constipated look. I sigh and fall to the floor, covering my face with my hands and start to pretend, because knowing Dylan, if I don't play along with his game, God knows what horrors and pranks I'll be in for.

"Ah!" I shout, cowering in pretend fear, "Knight Dylan! I'm so sorry for my crimes!" I peak from my hands which cover my face to see Dyl smiling down at me in pure joy in our game, the gaps in his teeth showing.

"Bow down monster!" he shouts, waving his sword around again. I kneel down so that my head is at the same height as Dylan's. His eyes twinkle with mirth as he proceeds to knight me by resting his sword on either side of my shoulder. His messy blonde hair is falling in his eyes as he sticks his nose up in the air like a pompous gentleman.

"I knight you Sir Cammie of the realm of Dylanland!" "Why thank you kind knight. I will serve the realm to the best of my abilities." I rise to my feet, and take off Dylan's helmet to ruffle his hair, smiling at my brother. "Morning Dyl," I say as I bend down to kiss the top of his head. "What's Jane got for breakfast?"

"Pancakes, banana for me, choc chip for you!" he says as he runs out of my room, bounding down the stairs two at a time. I swear that boy is one day going to fall down those rickety stairs and break his neck. The prospect of school in the morning hits me like a ton of bricks, but soon the sweet smell of pancakes wafts through the open door, beckoning to me. Throwing on a jumper over my camisole, I run down the stairs like Dylan, not caring whether I could fall and injure myself. And yes, I know I am a hypocrite telling Dyl to not run down the stairs, but he's only six, I'm seventeen. Big difference. All that matters is that Jane is making choc chip pancakes and that there is always a fight between John and I for them. I run into the tiled kitchen, my eyes searching for the gorgeous golden stack of golden pancakes. My eyes land on John sitting at the table, his mouth full of syrupy goodness, his lips pulled up in a smirk as he triumphantly gestures to the pile of pancakes in front of him.

"John!" I exclaim, marching towards him, my fists at my side balled up.

"Morning Cam." He smirks at me, fully aware of the fact he is eating my breakfast right now.

The audacity of that man! I decide to play along, just because I am in a playful mood. I sit on the chair next to him, propping my elbows up on the table next to his plate, resting my face in my hands and stare up at him.

"Morning Johnny, how are you this wonderful morning?"

"Grand, Cammie, just grand," he replies, his blue eyes sparkling in mischief as he looks over his glasses. "Jane sure does make the best pancakes doesn't she?" Bloody hell. I can't take this. I grab the plate suddenly, bringing over to my side of the table, but just as soon as I grab it, John grabs the other side and we start to battle.

"For God's sake, how many bloody children do I have in this house?" Jane arrives, and thank god, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to get any pancakes. John and I smile sheepishly at her, her hands on her hips in a threatening pose, her dark brown eyes locked onto us. She walks up to John and smacks him playfully on the back with a hidden spatula, her smile struggling to keep hidden.

"Ow! Honey!" John exclaims, his hand flying up to his back in shock. I watch the flirtatious actions passing between my foster parents with a smile, whilst eating my pancakes of course. John stands up and starts to kiss Jane on the lips, and when it starts to get heavy I stand up, pushing my chair back making a horrible screechy sound on the tiles. Jane pulls away, her face turning pink, her eyes flickering over to me.

"Uh uh, I thought we established, no kissing whilst I'm eating! I would not like to get put off choc chip pancakes, that just a waste!"

"Sorry hun, won't happen again," Jane says as she starts walks away from John, throwing a cheeky smile from over her shoulder. I start to sit down, but John chose that moment to slap Jane's bottom playfully. I roll my eyes; you'd think I live in a house with two horny teenagers. I stand back up, glaring at John and Jane and grab my plate to eat elsewhere. Much as I love Jane and John, there is only so much PDA I can take this early in the morning.

"You two are like teenagers. Can you please just grow up and act your age! I feel like the bloody parent here. I'll eat upstairs, I'm short for time, and it'll give you some time to yourselves. God knows you need it." John winks at me stealthily and I wink back. "Can't keep their hands off each other," I mutter as I walk out.

"We heard that!" yelled Jane and John in sync. I roll my eyes in response with a huge smile on my face. Jane and John are so young for their age, even though they are getting into their late thirties. I remember their childish nature and behaviour all through my childhood, which helped me a lot; especially dealing with the fact I had lost my parents. They were very young parents, adopting me when Jane was 25, and John was 28. Then after eleven years after taking me under their wing, out popped Dylan, yay! John works as a project manager for an IT banking project; who knows what that means. I tend to avoid the subject, as John could talk about it forever if you even go near the subject. Jane is a journalist and an interpreter, as she can speak seven languages. English of course, French, German, Russian, Korean, Mandarin and Spanish. I don't even know how her brain can handle that many languages, but she's the cleverest person you'll meet. She seems to know everything. She works at hone quite a lot, but she will sometimes go off for trips to other countries to write a story. She makes for an interesting person that's for sure. I love John and Jane, they are stupidly genius, childish, and so hopelessly in love with each other.

* * *

"Do you need a ride?" asks John as he passes me in the hallway. I grab my navy blazer from the coat hook and sling my backpack over my shoulder.

"Nah, I'm gonna walk over to Bex and grab a ride from there."

"Oh right, well say hello to the Baxters from Jane and I, tell them we need to have them over for dinner one time." I nod and smile, turning away and start to open the door.

"Oh Cammie." I turn around and John reaches up to my school tie, fixing it so that it actually looks like a tie. He shakes his head in disbelief, "when are you going to learn to do your tie?"

"When I find a good enough teacher to teach it to me," I retort, smirking at him. He pats my on the shoulder, "have a good day Cookie." I grin at his pet name for me and roll my eyes.

"Bye Pookie" I return. John and I have pet names for each other, ever since I expressed my distaste at the name Cookie. As expected, he didn't stop calling me Cookie, but I always returned calling him Pookie, just to annoy him as well. It's become a tradition of ours, just to remind outsiders that our family is actually properly weird.

* * *

I walk down the street to Bex's house. Bex is my one of my best friends and is British. That piece of information is necessary as it explains everything when it comes to Bex, especially her weird quirks. I knock on the door, and their butler opens it. Yes, they have a butler.

"Hi Frank," I greet the tuxedo-clad man with a smile wave as he ushers me in.

"Good morning Miss Cameron. Rebecca is upstairs in her bedroom, and Mr and Mrs Baxter are in the firing range. I believe they are departing for a mission in a few days." Oh I forgot, Bex's parents are actually agents of MI5, which explains the firing range and the mission. Its no big secret to friends of the family, but to everyone else, the Baxter's are just a family who are incredibly rich and the parents often take long holidays.

"Better not let Bex hear you call her Rebecca, Frank." I say as I walk up the marble staircase, "she'll have you for dinner!"

Frank smiles gently, in the perfect butler manner, "Miss Rebecca can try all she likes, Miss." I laugh and wave him a quick goodbye. I reach the top of the stairs and walk down an elegantly designed corridor. Their corridors are grander than my whole house put together. I finally come to a white door and knock the secret knock. The door opens grandly to reveal a huge room with a girl dressed in uniform staring at me.

"Great! You're here, just give me a minute to grab my things!" giving me a quick one-arm hug, holding a bunch of files in the other arm. I present Rebecca Baxter, but if you are interested in living in the foreseeable future, I suggest calling her Bex. I walk into the room, drop my bag and take a run up, jump, twist in mid air and land on my back on her bed, which is the comfiest thing ever. You just sink straight into it; it's heaven. I pull up my hands up behind my head back and close my eyes. All I hear is Bex's disapproving tut as she lies down beside me. I feel the duvet dip beside me and I turn to look at her, analysing her. I've known Bex for years, which means we kinda have a telepathic link where I know how she is feeling. But it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Bex is sad. She always shuts herself up just before her parents leave for a mission, she gets sick with worry and struggles being alone, knowing that her parents are in a life or death situation constantly.

She looks up at me; her eyes swimming with unshed tears threatening to spill over. "Its an important one Cams. Like really important. Which is like code for dangerous," she whispers. I sit up and wrap her slim figure in a hug, resting my head on her head of curls. I stroke her back, and instantly think of a way she will cheer up, because a sad Bex makes for an unbearable Bex at school. Therefore, we all like her happy. And also, I do love her, so if she's happy, I'm happy. I push her away slightly so I can look at her. Bex only cries in front of me, she is the strongest person I know, but when she breaks, only I can really fix her.

"Wanna make me up for school today? I trail off, having a mini celebration inside of me watching her smile grow on her face. I'm not the kinda girl who wears make up; I'd rather just throw my hair up in a messy ponytail for school. First of all, it saves time, and I need the extra time for sleep in the morning. And second of all, I wouldn't know where to put creams and all the colours on me, so I just don't bother. For years Bex and Macey have begged me to let them put make up on me for school, and time after time I would refuse. But today, just to cheer Bex up, I'm gonna let her, and probably just spend the rest of the day hiding under a hat or something, I seriously hate wearing make up. "Really?" Bex asks, her hands rubbing together gleefully, her mood totally changed. I internally groan, regretting my decision, but smile and nod at her.

"Fantastic! Just sit there and do as I say okay?" She claps her hands together and jumps of the bed, laughing to herself. She comes back to me; holding three make up bags, yes three. God knows what she keeps in there… She pulls out a bottle, and looks at me, tilting her head to the side in thought. She rights her head, smiles and looks at me, "let's do this".

"Oh god."

* * *

I knew it was bloody mistake. Of course Bex would go all out. She even made adjustments to my damn uniform! So here I am, walking into the main entrance of the school, a white woollen beanie pulled low over my blonde waves, hiding my eyes from view so that people won't recognise me. Hopefully. Bex has traded my black school shoes for black heels which right now I'm struggling to walk in, she's shortened the striped tie, shortened the skirt, and swapped my tights for knee high socks. I am going to kill that girl. She's messed up my face, she's added bronzer because apparently I'm too pale, blusher, because I don't have enough colour, mascara and eyeliner because I have light eyes and done my eyebrows because I quote Bex here, 'they are a bit dodgy'. Did I mention that I am going to kill Bex? We walk down the corridor, our heels clicking against the wooden floor, echoing down, announcing our presence. And great, a boy just wolf whistled. Fantastic. I glare at Bex beside me, who's glowing from my transformation.

"You are so dead," I mutter, squeezing her hand with enough pressure to grab her attention.

"Oh I know," she returns gleefully, "it'll be so worth it though." I groan and pull my beanie down lower to look at the floor, which suddenly just became more interesting. I let Bex guide me into our homeroom where I fall into my chair and pull my bag up onto the desk with a thud.

"You're late."

My head snaps up at the foreign voice. Shit, now I'm in trouble. Trust me to be late on the day we get a new teacher. A man in a navy waistcoat stares us down and wow, he sure is intimidating.

"Sorry sir," chimes Bex, "won't happen again!" Why does she always sound so happy?

"Glad to hear that Miss Baxter. But what is your name?" He looks at me expectantly, and I look up to meet his gaze.

"Cammie Morgan sir." I reply. I watch as a flicker of horror flashes through his expression. But just as soon as I see it, it disappears and his poker face comes back out to play. I have no idea what that was about. What's so horrifying about my name?

"Right. Well, as I was about to say when these two girls rudely interrupted me, my name is Mr Solomon; I will be your new chemistry teacher and your form tutor. You have four new students in your form group, Mr Goode, Mr Anderson, Mr Winters and Mr Morgan. Mr Solomon's gaze flits over to me as he says the last name, as if to gauge my reaction. I stare right back at him blankly. I have no idea what his problem is, and to be frank, I don't like the way he is looking at me, like I'm a bomb about to explode. It's incredibly unnerving.

"Well, now the pleasantries have been exchanged, I have to excuse myself, but I trust you will find your way to assembly when the bell goes. Nice meeting you all." And with that, creepy ass Mr Solomon leaves the room. "Oh my god! He's so hot!" I roll my eyes in exasperation; of course Bex would find him hot.

"Of course you would." I scowl at this new person's comment. Only I'm allowed to comment on Bex's irresponsible crushes. I turn around and prepare to rip a new one into this person. But oh my god. Just my luck, newbie here is hot as hell. Not cute, but flaming-please-dunk-me-in-cold-water-type hot. He smirks at me, because here I am gawping like a flipping goldfish.

He leans in and snaps his fingers at me, "earth to Blondie?" I snap out of my reverie and glare at him.

"Oh so you are awake, just making sure you weren't daydreaming about me."

I give a loud fake laugh, "and why would I daydream about you?" He grins cockily at my response. What I would do to wipe that stupid smirk off his face right now…

He gestures to himself, "have you looked at me recently?"

I smile prettily in response, "you need your eyes checked newbie, you're not as good as you think you are."

Again he grins, showing his perfect white teeth. Christ, why isn't there an imperfection on him? Why couldn't just have a chipped tooth or something so I don't feel like a freak show talking to this walking Abercrombie model? He leans forwards and sweeps his hand across my cheek so quickly I could have missed it. He leans even further forward, and right now, I'm frozen, even though he's invading my personal space like a million times over. His face juts out slightly so that his mouth comes near my ear. His breath touches my neck, leaving goose bumps in its wake. "Your blush says otherwise Blondie." He falls back into his chair, and the bell goes, bringing me back down to earth. I turn back in my seat and gather my things as quickly as possible, just to get out of the room so I can mentally gather all my logic and common sense that had been thrown out of the window by that one sexy husky whisper of his. Bloody hell. Who am I? I stand up and walk out of the room, only to trip up on my feet and fall to the ground, my bag spilling out all of its contents. Great, my clumsiness comes into play the minute it will embarrass me. I hear a chuckle next to me, as 'newbie' bends down to help me collect my pens and books. He stands up and offers a hand to me, his face stretched into a wide smile. I glare at the hand; he must have some bloody snag to this plan. No way could 'newbie' by this nice, considering he has just been trying to, and successfully, pissing me off for the whole of the three minutes I have known him. But screw it; I'm on the floor of a classroom. I place my hand in his, and he gently tugs me up to him, careful to not let me fall. We pause as we stand close to each other, his hand still holding mine. And bloody hell, his green eyes are so pretty. Like not gross colour green, but like the beautiful vibrant green of… grass?

Again, a chuckle escapes his lips, "I know I'm gorgeous Blondie, but no need to gape at me like that." Dammit, he just couldn't keep his mouth shut could he and not ruin a nice moment? I rip my hand out of his grasp and scowl at him in frustration because he is still standing in too close a proximity for my own comfort. I mumble a thank you and turn away, walking down the corridor, well more like power walking, he just makes me feel weirdly nervous.

"You know, I never caught your name!" I hear him shout down the corridor, which is now quickly filling up with people.

I grin at myself, shaking my head slightly in amusement as I do what's best, disappear into the crowd.

* * *

**A/N: Second chapter! Thanks for reading. Reviews and PM's appreciated! x**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

Liz's POV

My name is Liz Sutton. 17 years old and abnormally short. I'm pretty normal, nothing really extraordinary. Well, except for my IQ which is 195. That's 34 more than Stephan Hawking and Einstein, and one higher than chess grandmaster Garry Kasparov. But apart from that, I'm normal.

I don't usually break into the school system, I sometimes do it for fun, just because the breaking into the Pentagon repeatedly can be boring and it's good to have a change. I open my beloved laptop and my fingers start to fly furiously over the well-worn keyboard. I watch as I break through numerous firewalls, shattering them in my wake. The school's system is terrible; they have only the basic firewalls to defend their information, firewalls that anyone with half a brain cell and with the instructions could break through in under a minute. 23 seconds later, the laptop screen blinks, filling the black screen with the luminous green numbers that together make up the code I was breaking through. I smile and lean back in my chair, 23 seconds. That's a new record for me. 2 seconds quicker than the last time. I watch as school files pop up onto my screen, hundreds and hundreds of documents showing the details of every single student enrolled at Gallagher. I scan for the document I want: my essay. I made a mistake on the essay I submitted last night, and I because I am OCD with a slight dash of perfectionist, I need to fix it otherwise it will bug me for the rest of the week. It's no big deal; I do this so often I could do it in my sleep.

I bring up my school file and cringe at my student photo; it's pretty terrible. I'm not the most photogenic person on the planet, which sucks especially as that is the photo on my student card, which means quite a few people can see it. I sigh and click on my most recent essay to bring it up. Instead of seeing four pages of typed up writing, all I see is a single box with the word, "REDACTED". Suddenly each pixel falls away from my screen, wiping my essay and my whole school file. "What's going on?" I whisper as I frantically type to try and recapture my file, trying to retain my information. I'm not quick enough. I'm left with a blank laptop screen. "What on earth!" I exclaim. My whole school file just disappeared. Reasons for redaction flash through my brain at rapid speeds; it can't be the school's doing, no way are the technicians at Gallagher are good enough to completely wipe a whole file remotely when it's currently open. Which means that this had to be external. But who would want my school data? I open the school directory to see if anyone's files have disappeared. The names flash by until I see one that's marked in red. Elizabeth Sutton. My breathing increases as other names pop up in red, Macey McHenry. Rebecca Baxter. Cameron Morgan. I lean back on my chair, my back aching from being huddled over a laptop for so long. I rub my forehead and blink, trying to understand what just happened and why files are missing. No one apart from the school is allowed to see them; it's for our own protection. Vulnerability. So this is what it feels like.

* * *

"What do you mean they're gone?" yells Macey as she paces the entire floor length of the girl's bathroom.

"Gone, disappeared, burnt into the atmosphere, they are gone Macey, what else do you want me to say?" I yell back. I don't usually raise my voice; I don't usually lose my temper. But after finding out that all the information on myself has now disappeared into the hands of who knows who has left me quite short tempered and frustrated. I found Macey almost immediately afterwards and dragged her into the nearest toilet. She was unwilling, very reluctant to leave the huddle of high school boys that had gathered around her, adoring her like the new queen. I sit on the counter, bending my head over into the palms of my hands. I tried to break into the code that was blocking my access, but I couldn't. This was the first time I have been beaten, and it was taking its toll of me. These people are good; their firewalls are solid and are nothing like I have seen before.

"So, you can't like magically bring it back by doing that weird hoodoo thing with numbers and your laptop?" I sigh and look back up at Macey who was now staring at me, her hands thrown up into the air in exasperation.

"You mean break the code? I've tried. That was the first thing I did"

"I thought you could break codes!" Macey retorts, almost shouting. I cringe at the thought of others hearing yet this is swept aside by my rising temper.

"Yes Macey, I can. But it's not a piñata, I can't just whack at it with a stick!" I'm shouting now. I never shout.

"Then what can you do huh? What can you do with that super brain of yours? Oh I'm Liz, I'm so clever I can do huge multiplication sums in my head in under a second and can talk in multiple languages, I'm so much cleverer than you." I start to see red. Of course Macey would go about this immaturely, trying to find a way to wind me up like she always does instead of focusing on the problem at hand here. I watch her twirl a strand of hair around her index finger, fanning herself trying to imitate me. I never fan myself I think to myself angrily. I stand there seething, my shoulders tense and my jaw locked. "What are you gonna do Liz? Go on, use that clever brain of yours!" That's it. She is so dead. I lunge forward off the counter towards Macey; hands outstretched, a sneer plastered on my face.

"What the hell is going on?" I stop suddenly in my pursuit and drop my hands to my sides. I peek up to see Cammie standing there horrified at the entrance to the toilet, her eyes darting between Macey and I with a furious glint in my eyes. She walks over to us, standing in between us to keep us apart

"We've been compromised." I roll my eyes at Macey's dramatic statement, she has been watching too many Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Apparently I'm not the only one who thinks this as Cammie lets out a chuckle and looks over to Macey, "not everybody's life is the spy life Mace." She shrugs her shoulder in reply and arches one perfectly manicured eyebrow at her.

"Why don't you ask Liz? It's all her fault anyway." I don't retaliate but raise my eyes up to Cammie to face her questioning gaze.

"I was in the school's account earlier and I saw our files disappearing leaving empty ones. So according to the school and the government, we do not exist anymore. They have been redacted, and someone god knows where has got our information, our identity. Who knows what they can do with that information? I have secrets, Macey has secrets, and Bex is the daughter of two agents of MI5 for God's sake." My voice drops. "We're vulnerable."

Zach's POV

"Couldn't leave that poor girl alone could you Z?" I turn my head around to face Grant grinning. "She looked really flustered, what was that Joe said to us? Try to make friends?"

"Nah, I don't think she was as flustered as you think."

Grant looks incredulously at me, "yeah whatever mate. It's not like she half sprinted down the corridor to get away from you."

"What's this? A girl who has resisted Zach's charms? Who is this? I wanna kiss her." I look to my left and see Preston walking beside us his bright smile mocking. I grin and slap the back of his brown head. "Oi! Watch it, I've still got concussion you idiot." My face falls slightly. Shit. I forgot about that.

"Sorry man. I didn't mean to, I forgot." The crowd of babbling teenagers sweep us up and we get bustled down the down to some brown double doors.

"No worries. Do you know where we are going?" whispers Preston. I shake my head in response. Just follow the crowd.

"Smile and wave boys, just smile and wave," mutters Grant, eliciting a small laugh from me. We enter through the doors into a grand hall with a high ceiling. I inwardly scoff; this place has nothing on the Pentagon. We are directed into a row next to some giggling girls.

No sooner as I sit down a sultry voice sounds, "Well, hello there handsome." I glance at the girl to my left and silently groan at the sight of her. Typical teenage high school girl; dyed blonde hair with so much make up caked on her face you can hardly make out her original features. I shrug her hand off my shoulder, "not interested honey." She sneers at me and whips her hair round leaving a cloud of overwhelming perfume in my face. "Oh God, what did she do? Dump a whole bottle of perfume on her head this morning?" Grant exclaims whilst pinching his nose together.

"Students of Gallagher."

My head whips up to the front of the hall where there is a stage set up. There is a row of chairs against the back wall where every teacher is sat. My eye scans along the faces, committing them to my memory. I see Joe sitting next to a grey haired woman. His face is impassive, his eyes subtly scanning the mass of pupils before him. His eyes lock onto mine and I nod slightly at him, trying to convey that everything is ok. His lips curve upwards in a small smile for a second and then just as it appears, it disappears. I continue down the line of the teachers, ignoring the droning voice of the Headmaster. My eyes latch onto another familiar figure sitting in the teacher's row.

"Sapevate che Abby veniva a scuola con noi?" whispers Preston.

_Did you know that Abby was coming to school with us? _

I look over to Grant, but he's as surprised as we are. Guess Grant didn't know his aunt was coming either.

"No. Ma sembra che ovunque Joe va, così fa Abby"

_No. But it seems like wherever Joe goes, so does Abby. _

I reply back in Italian, I guess we don't let our guard down easily. I smile knowingly at Preston. It's no secret to us that Joe and Abby have a relationship that is far from professional all the time. No one else knows about this in the agency, those only close enough to him or her catch the small inconspicuous glances, the innocent touches, and the unwavering loyalty to each other. It has never been confirmed, but us four always have had our suspicions.

"Learn the skills. Honour the sword. Keep the secrets."

The whole student body chants these words monotonously, their hands clenched in a fist held over their heart in a patriotic fashion. What? As soon as the words finish, rows start filing out of the hall, entering back into the deserted corridor. Guess we missed the motto. We follow the crowd again into the spacious corridor; different to the one we were in before.

"It's like a flipping maze," says Grant, his eyes roving over the endless doors and corridors splitting off.

"Who's got chemistry next?" asks Preston.

"I do." I reply. I like chemistry. I can actually do some of it, surprise surprise. Grant claps me on the back "see you later then."

With that, we walk down opposite ends of the corridor. I take a deep breath as my hand rests on the door handle to the lab. "Che cosa è la scuola ha ottenuto il venire colpiti eh"

_What's school got on being shot at huh? _Preston says hushed. I laugh at this, finding newfound confidence, and push open the door.

Cammie's POV

It's ok. Everything will be ok. I don't have secrets. My life has been an open book ever since my parents died. The authorities have all my details, all my life stories. I'm fine. It's the others I am worried about. We missed assembly. Nobody heard the bell over the shouting and arguing in toilet. I can see why they are so riled up. And now we have the added problem of telling Bex, and she's already stressed about her parents leaving for another mission. There was a good five minutes arguing about who should be the one to tell Bex. I guess I have the honour of doing that. The information in Macey's file could be especially damaging to her and her family. Her father is the American ambassador to France; imagine what blackmail and selling of Macey's information could do to him? France and America's relationship could be ruined if something was leaked and tweaked to look offensive. And Liz! Liz is one of the cleverest teenagers in the world. Someone is bound to take an interest in her. Even the CIA has repeatedly tried to recruit her, but Liz is having none of that, she's determined to live a normal life. I can't help thinking that if you have an IQ of God knows what, you will never be able to live a normal life, but Liz is adamant that no secret organisation snatches her up before she finishes school. Bex. Well, her situation is self-explanatory. I had no idea I had been wringing my hands until a snipe voice cuts into my thought process.

"Nervous or something?" God. Newbie just had to arrive right now didn't he? I glare up at him sharply but can't help but melt slightly at his stupid gorgeous smirk.

"That seat is taken." I keep my voice clipped so that he can't read anything from me. I don't want him to know that I'm angry beyond belief and breaking down with worry.

"Not right now it isn't. Someone has got your panties in a twist since I've last seen you," he replies, seating himself down and dropping his files down on the desk with a loud thud. He looks across at me with a triumphant and amused smile. I glare back before dropping my head into my hands preparing myself for 50 minutes of oncoming torture.

"Oh God." The words were out before I even thought about saying them.

"No," he replied with a smug grin, arching one perfect eyebrow. "But close." I'm breathing heavily and surprised that I haven't slapped him by now.

"Just shut up, I've had my quota of asstards for today." I say my voice muffled by my hands, I don't bother with a please and thank you. It probably wouldn't even register with him. I really don't need a boy who thinks he's God's gift to the world sitting next to me deliberately trying to rile me up.

"Woah, okay. I get it. That time of the month I see." That's it. This is the moment where newbie turned from slightly nice guy to every other ubiquitous jerk I met in high school. God, I don't even know his name and I hate him. Why do all the attractive guys in school have to be jerks? I open my mouth to retort with a snide remark but was stopped as our new teacher saunters into the class. Oh great. Mr Creepy-Ass-Solomon. Just my luck. First lesson is chemistry, which I am terrible at, with a new teacher who looks at me like I'm a target, sitting next to a boy who doesn't know when to shut up.

"What is the chemical test for the positive ion Fe 2?" Mr Solomon walks to stand at the front of the class, his hands clasped behind his back, his body language exerting confidence, leadership and overbearing power. His questioning gaze travels across the class to land right beside me.

"Mr Goode? Do you have an idea?" Surely this teacher knows that we haven't covered chemical analysis yet, of course no one knows anything about this topic. I feel slightly sorry for newbie; he's just been asked an impossible question.

I watch as he lifts his green eyes up to the teacher. "Add sodium hydroxide to the solution of the compounded ion. If a grey green precipitate is formed, then the positive ion is present. If not, then it is not present." My mouth slacks open. I groan inwardly, to add to newbie, he's a chemistry whiz kid. Great.

"Good job Mr Goode." Mr Solomon presents newbie with a small smile and turns to face the blackboard, his chalk creating numerous equations with ions that get lost in my mind.

"Impressed Blondie?" Newbie whispers his husky whisper in my ear sending shivers down my spine. I turn my head away from the blackboard to face him. His face comes too close to mine, but I decide to stand firm.

"Not really. You are probably just a layer of brains wrapped under a coat of muscle and then sexual stupidity". His face morphs into one of mock horror and shock as his hand comes up to his perfectly sculptured mouth. "I'm wounded!" I giggle slightly at his theatrics, earning a few looks at our direction. I sigh and shake my head slightly. I look back up to the board to find it covered with white letters and numbers meshed together to form the most complex web of analysis I have ever seen. I look away for one minute and this guy fills an empty blackboard with dozens of equations.

"Shite," I mutter under my breath. I look across to newbie's book and see it filled with the writing on the board. He's focused on his book, his pen scratching across the page writing down his thoughts and ideas as to solving the ionic equation. I grab my pen and uncap it, popping the end into my mouth from habit as I study his page and start to write down notes from his work.

"Do you mind?" he asks looking down at me. I smile sheepishly, like I've just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar and look down at the desk.

"Sorry," I whisper and look back up at the board in an attempt to understand ionic bonds. My eyes rove over the words and numbers but I can't unravel the meaning. I hate chemistry.

"Struggling?" His voice is getting on my nerves. "It's easy, I'm surprised you haven't got it." His condescending tone is patronizing and infuriatingly annoying. "Maybe you should ask for extra help." I am at the end of my tether.

"You know what newbie? Go to hell." With that I swing my arms back to my side, accidently knocking over the two bottles of sodium hydroxide on our desk. My hands fly to my mouth as I watch the liquid spilling over all our work, the ink on newbie's page blending into a mush of colours.

"I'm so sorry!" I gasp as I run across the lab to get tissues from the wall dispenser. By now, the whole class is watching me as I run back to the desk with a bouquet of tissue paper mopping up the chemical. Newbie copies my actions as we try to clean up our desk. I carry on cleaning until I feel his hand on arm gripping me firmly as if to say, 'stop'. I look up at the lab to see twenty pairs of eyes staring at us in dead silence. I smile back confidently. I have always been one to take embarrassment in my stride. Other people wish that the ground would swallow them whole but I typically make a point to hold my head high. I throw my hands up in a way to say 'oh well' and collapse back into my seat amid giggles and laughter from my classmates. I look at Mr Solomon to see a small smile gracing his features, but his is directed at newbie who's giggling at my antics as well. The lesson restarts and I subtly lean over to newbie, "I hate you, you know." I right myself on my chair. He leans over to me.

"I hate you more Blondie." I laugh.

* * *

We didn't talk much after the incident in chemistry. Newbie allowed me to copy notes off him, since I couldn't understand Mr Solomon's teaching. We worked in mutual silence until the bell rang. I jump out of my seat, eager to leave the Chemistry room and get onto my next lesson, Trig. Now, numbers I can understand. Numbers make sense. It's the only language in the world that can be understood by all, a bit like Esperanto but easier. I walk out of the lab straight into a person. My face collides with their hard chest and all I can think when I collapse to the fall is my god this person is tall, and incredibly muscular.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry! Are you ok?" Great, another boy, please don't let him be insufferable. I open my eyes to look at this guy, who's holding out a hand for me to stand up. Ok, he's polite. Good start. He could have just laughed and ran away. I take his hand and he gently pulls me up. "That's the second time I've seen you fall today," he laughs, a gentle rumbling tone.

"You're in my form class?"

"Yeah, Grant Morgan at your service ma'am." He does a fake bow, his blonde hair flopping in his eyes.

I giggle, "so you're the other Morgan running about these halls then."

"There are two Morgan's here?"

"Yeah. Me. Cammie Morgan at your service sir." I mimic his bow. He laughs and we continue walking down the corridor.

"Interesting, we aren't related by any chance? Long lost cousin or something?"

I try not to let my sadness show as I reply. "Uh. I wouldn't know. Don't know my family." He looks at me curiously, his head cocked to the side as I smile awkwardly at him.

"Grant!" A voice filters down the corridor and makes him turn his head. "I, uh," he pauses. God, this is awkward. "I'll see you around then Cammie."

I smile sweetly back at him, "yeah Morgan, see you around." He winks, turns and then runs full pelt down the corridor, his bag flying out behind him, his arms waving people out the way. I silently laugh at this guy's behaviour. Maybe these new guys aren't all douches. I've met two out of the four. Newbie, whose name I still don't know is, well, I don't know. He was hot and cold during chemistry, being genuinely nice and ok one second and then really pissing the next. I walk into the Trig classroom and smile warmly at the teacher, Mrs Allen. She's lovely. I sit down at my desk and take out my maths file to start doodling in it. I let my black pen swirl over what little blank space there is on the inside of my file and wait for the lesson to start.

"Miss Sutton! Are you alright?" My head snaps up at the mention of Liz. She looks dishevelled, her face is flushed with pink, her hair no longer in its neat bun but tendrils escaping and falling into her face.

"Uh, yes. Mrs Allen, I'm fine. Thank you." She walks down the classroom to sit beside me in the chair.

"Are you ok? You look pretty flustered." I pull the hair away from her face and tuck it back into its normal bun, and rub her shoulders. She's breathing heavily and I can see that tears are swimming in her eyes. 'What happened?"

"Cammie," she whispers. "I've found out who hacked us. And it's bad. I mean, I don't understand why. They would be interested in me, they have expressed their interest in me before, but why all four of us? Have I dragged you into this? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." She rambles on, muttering under her breath and I can barely make out a word she is saying. My breath hitches and my heart is pounding, but I stay calm. Someone needs to stay calm out of us lot and Liz at the moment isn't doing so hot.

"Ok. Who is it?" Liz tears her gaze away from the front of the classroom to look at me. "CIA."

* * *

**A/N: A whole load of words here. Thanks for reading! **


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

Zach's POV

God, it felt so good to be able to play football competitively, and in a team with more than three a side for once. But I ache everywhere. A couple days ago, the doctor gave me the go ahead to be able to stretch and actually do things without aggravating my wound or actually making it worse. I know I probably overdid it today, but the euphoric feeling of running with the ball was too much. That's probably one of the things I would regret not doing in my teenage years. I spent my time shooting bullets into plastic mannequins, trying to kill directly into the heart, stomach and between the eyes from over 50 metres away, whilst normal kids would be playing football against other schools, chasing girls, worrying about keeping up their grades. I got the girls, never mind that, but I wouldn't have minded playing football and living a carefree life. I push open the door to home and unceremoniously dump my backpack on the pristine floor.

"Zachy? Is that you?" Mum's voice floats through the hallway, along with the delicious smell of chicken casserole.

"No!" I shout back, "It's an axe murderer, run for your life!" I grin at the irony. Mum could probably take any axe murderer with her super ninja skill moves that I have yet to learn. It's some Eastern Japanese martial art form that she learnt whilst on her honeymoon. Just another reason to prove how strange my family is. I stretch out my limbs, letting a long grunt rumble in my chest, my palm rubbing at my tired face. I wish I could spend the rest of the day sleeping: high school is mentally draining. Sure, I have to think when in action, but not about complex chemical equations that bond together to create chains of polymers that combine to make plastic bags.

"Z!" I spin around at the mention of my name, just in time to catch the sugar-fuelled boy that is Ace, my little doppelganger. "You home!"

I whirl him around in fast circles, his arms waving in the air madly as the rooms blurs. His giggles are infectious and I start laughing along with him as we continue spinning in circles. "Zachary Matthew Goode. Put your brother down this instant!" I dizzily lower myself down so that Ace can jump down.

"Come on mum, it's fine! It's not like I'm gonna drop him or anything."

"Mama, Z is fun!" Ace waves his little arms in the air in emphasis and puts on a grumpy face. Even at two years old, he's the grumpiest human alive, even beating Joe. But also the cutest, which makes him incredibly deadly and manipulative. Like I said, he's my little doppelganger. He's going to make a great agent some day; it's inevitable, he's got the genes that's for sure.

Mum sighs and drops the spatula she had been waving about to pick Ace up, "I know baby, maybe later ok? Do you want to help mama get dinner ready?" Ace claps his hands in response, his smile spreading across his face showing his teeth with one missing. We were all so proud of him for losing his first tooth. The 'tooth fairy' gave him five dollars for it as well. That kid is spoiled way too much, that's the good thing about being the baby in the family. I pick up my forgotten backpack and bound up the flights of stairs to my room. I basically own the whole attic. I won it off Jess when I was eleven years old. She challenged me to a sniper battle where we shot at dummies 1500 yards away for around three hours. If I had lost, I would have to do her chores for three years. If I won, then I we would swap rooms. I would get the attic; she would get the basement. It's fair to say I won. Jess didn't speak to me for nine weeks after that and the big bad sister act came out to play, leading to an all out sibling war. It eventually blew over, and now we are really close. She's coming home in two weeks, if her mission doesn't overrun or encounter any difficulties. She's been in Iraq, gathering intelligence on emerging criminal and terrorist organisations. It's been a pretty nerve wrecking six months, considering the danger. And I know I sound like a little boy, but I can't wait to have my sister home. I open the trapdoor to my room and climb out. I am met with the welcoming musty smell, the light from my skylight illuminating my bed as if it was beckoning to me. "Home sweet home," I mutter to myself as I launch myself unattractively onto my mattress, wrapping the duvet around me. It's been a long day.

* * *

I awaken as I hear the tell-tale creaking of wood that signals someone coming through the trap door. I don't bother opening my eyes, I was very comfortable sleeping earlier, whoever has just come can just piss off.

"Z?" My angry mood lightens as I hear Ace's voice. I hear his padded footsteps approach my bed and feel his gentle poke.

"Hey buddy," I mutter, my eyes still shut. Ace scrambles up onto the bed and wriggles his way under the duvet. I roll over slightly to make room for him, his little body fitting comfortably in the little space there is.

"Mama says come down. Dinner is ready." I groan slightly at the thought of leaving the warm bed.

"But it's too cold," I grumble, wrapping the duvet around me tighter. I hear Ace's angry huff as he sits up, the mattress dipping under his light weight. I open one eye and let out a small laugh at his grumpy face. His eyebrows have furrowed and his dimples are even more prominent now that his mouth in curved in a frown. "Z. Move." Ah. See here, Ace is a mix of mum and dad's good looks, but he definitely has mum's annoying nagging attitude. I choose to ignore him and close my eyes again. I feel Ace leave the bed, leaving me in peace and quiet at last. I'll just eat later.

* * *

Why did I ever think I could get some peace and quiet? I walk into the dining room my eyes squinting at the bright light. The rest of the family is seated, minus dad and Jess. Even Ali is here. I could feel everybody's eyes on me as I walk to my chair.

"Well, don't think that beauty sleep worked for you bro." I glare at Cal through narrowed eyes. I sit down in my place next to Ali who gives me a small smile, which I return.

"Did Ace wake you up?" says Mum, her eyes exaggeratedly innocent. I scoff.

"You would know mum, you were the one who unleashed the devil!"

"I got duvet!" Ace runs into the room dragging my duvet behind him, his proud smile beaming.

"Is that your duvet Zach?" asks Ali questioningly.

"The little devil decided the best way to wake me up was to snatch the duvet off," I mutter into my food scowling. I shove a large piece of scalding lasagne in my mouth to try and wake me up out of my stupor. Ali bursts in laughter, her blonde curls shaking opens her arms and Ace runs into her hug. "Aren't you a clever little guy?" she coos, rubbing his copper brown hair.

Callum looks wounded as he regards the situation, "I don't get that treatment from you!" he exclaims in mock offence. I see my opportunity to make things super awkward and call out, "you would if you asked her out you prick!" It was a touchy subject around Cal, but Ali is used to it and laughs it off with a wave of her hand. She knows that she is as good as a girlfriend to Cal, and thankfully she has stuck around. He would be a nightmare without her. I receive a kick on my shin for my comment though, and choke on my food from the surprise. I glare at Cal, his gaze matching mine.

"Jerk."

"Ass."

"Prick."

"Boys." Mum's warning tone cuts through our murmuring quibble."Zach how was school today?"

Ali turns to face me in surprise. "What? You went to school today?"

"Joe thought that Zach needed to be normal," Cal replies with a laugh, "little bugger got five months off missions to go high school."

"Oh, met any girls then?"

I groan. "Why are you so hell bent on me getting a girl Ali? Cal doesn't have one!"

"Yes, but Cal has Ali to keep him in line," Mum chips in.

"And also if you get a girlfriend you would stop screwing around with poor unsuspecting girls," Cal adds in. Jeez, he's on fire tonight.

"There's this one girl," I trail off.

Ali literally jumps on me. "Seriously? Tell us about her! I bet she's super pretty!"

"Hang on! Let me finish. There's this one girl, but she's a total pain in my ass."

Ali's face falls in disappointment and sits back down in her chair. "Well we can only hope."

I smirk at her, "hope breeds eternal misery." She sticks her tongue out at me in response. "Real mature Ali, real mature."

Mum doesn't back down so easily, "what's her name?" "She's got like a boy's name, but she's a Morgan."

"Oh is she related to Grant?" Ali asks; her interest piqued.

"Dunno, we didn't really talk about that," I reply shrugging my shoulders.

"What is she like? Tell me everything you know." Mum's eager tone catches my attention and I look at her strangely. "Why all this interest? She's just a girl." She shakes her head slightly but I am not fooled. Her pupils have dilated slightly, and her nervous signals are on display: her fingers running gently over her wrists, and the fact her lips are sealed in a tight line.

"Mum," I start quietly. "Are you ok?"

"Yes honey, just got a little bit nauseous for a second." She stands up and walks out of the dining room purposefully, without turning back.

My head snaps towards Cal. "What's wrong with mum?" I question.

"Good, it wasn't just me who realised," Cal replies, his eyes steeling into blue orbs of ice. He only gets that look when he's worried or threatened which only worries me more. "It wasn't news from dad was it?" I ask hesitantly. News from the Pentagon regarding dad usually puts mum in an unsettled mood rather than the comforted one, which is intended. "Nope, last communication was a week ago. News doesn't travel from Afghanistan to here that quickly." I nod in agreement.

"Shall I go check up on her?" asks Ali gently. "Maybe she needs someone who isn't family?" Cal wraps his arm around her petite shoulders and rests his face in her hair, "you are family Ali," he mumbles. She laughs quietly in return, and starts to stroke his hair with her hands. Well, this makes me feel like an awkward third wheel. Seriously, they should just declare whatever they have and get a bloody room. Ali has turned Cal into a blubbering mess of dependency with a heavy dose of affection; it's pretty perturbing for me. "Yeah, but I mean outside the family occupation," she counters.

"Go," I urge. She's right. Mum needs, uh, the 'feminine reassurance' thing. She peels herself away from Cal and rises to go find mum. I watch Cal's eyes follow her out of the room, and pretend to gag. "God, you are so whipped mate," I whisper theatrically. Cal turns to look at me, but it's not one of annoyance, but acceptance. I barely have time to respond to that before Ali rushes back into the room, "she's on the phone. Go, go!"

Cal jumps up and sprints out of the room down the hallway to the stairs leading down to the basement. I follow in anticipation. When I was around fifteen, Jess, Cal and I installed these wire taps that let us listen to every conversation being held on the house phone. We never got anything that interesting, mum and dad were clever enough to keep the secret stuff to their own personal means of communication, but every now and then, they would let loose a gem of information, which led to the hoarding of excellent blackmail material over the years. These wires always led back to Jess' room. She was always the technical genius out of us, our ringleader; I kinda worshipped her when we were younger. Cal punches in the 24-digit code into the secret back panel hidden behind the skirting board that grants us entry to her domain. I rush to the computer and fire it up, putting on the headphones, holding up my finger for silence.

"Rachael, calm down." Mum's voice filters through the ear buds and out into a small speaker that allows Cal and Ali to listen. I look at Cal as he mouths, 'Rachael Morgan? Grant?" It must be. "I know, but you have to calm down Rach. Don't let this scare you."

"Dammit!" I look at Cal and raise my eyebrows in question. "Damn wires must have been frayed from overuse, we can only hear mum's side of the conversation."

"Shite," I mutter as I listen to the silence. "No, Zach doesn't know. But if he finds out Rachael, hell if any of them find out, who knows what will happen? She's a threat to them." My ears prick up at this. "She's brilliant Rach, you know she is. That's why she's hidden. Don't worry, Edward and I will clean up. No one will find her out." Cal and Ali look at me both with questioning stares. Fuck.

"We have to go."

* * *

"God damn, who is it Joe? Who's the woman?" The past hour has resulted in us gaining no information. Nothing. I made a couple quick calls after I learned of the threat. Just as I expected, as soon as I told the boys of the news, they were more than eager to exterminate it.

"Look Joe," Preston leans forward, pressing his palms into the desk, "we know its high level security clearance. Jonas here had a crack at the system. Nothing. Absolutely nothing, and you know how bloody good he is. So, the real question here is, who the hell does the CIA have nothing on?" Preston's diplomatic tone achieves nothing. Bloody stubborn Joe still isn't talking.

"Why would mum and Rachael know something the CIA didn't huh?" I ask. His face remains impassive, Christ; it's the exact definition of poker face. He hasn't moved, talked, even acknowledged our words. The past sixty minutes have been spent here in his office, ranting on without getting any reply.

Grant's hands slam down on the desk. "Joe. I swear to God. I will tell everyone in this goddamn building that there's a threat in the school. I will scream to this whole bloody city that the CIA isn't invincible; that there is someone they are blank on. Jonas will post it on every fricking social network on this planet. So help me God, I swear I will do this if you don't tell me who my mum is so terrified of." Grant lets out a short humourless laugh. "Do you want me to threaten you? Please, give me a reason to, because I'd like nothing more than to introduce your nose to my fist if you don't tell us something." You could see Joe's thoughts whir into action the second Grant stopped talking. Glimpses of unreadable emotion flicker behind his steel eyes, his lips tighten together, his eyebrows scrunch together in either frustration or confusion, I can't decide. Minutes pass in silence. The tension in the room is palpable. Grant's eyes never leave Joe's.

"The Chameleon."

Hallelujah, the man talks! "What about them?" asks Jonas, his voice inquisitive and cautious.

"Tell me what you know on 'the Chameleon'." I sigh at this feeble question. If you have been with the CIA for a while, then certain rumours from the field reach your ears. 'The Chameleon' is the code name for a top-secret target of the CIA. It is unknown whether it belongs to a male or female, but all everyone and anyone knows is that 'The Chameleon' is the daughter or son of two CIA agents, and that they have been off the grid since the beginning. He, she, it, whatever, is also rumoured to be the best pavement artist ever.

"What does this have to do with 'the Chameleon' Joe?" Joe stands up so quickly his chair falls to the ground with a bang that reverberates through the room.

"Think boy. Think and use that brain of yours." I stand up to match Joe's powerful posture and ground my teeth in overbearing frustration, "I am not a boy." I spit out, emphasizing my words.

Joe's face morphs into a shark-eating grin, his eyes glinting in the light from the chandelier above us."Oh you aren't a boy? You are all boys: young, stupid boys who know nothing of the real world. You boys are stupid enough to even think you can get into this mess and come out on top. So think boys. Think". Joe's booming voice echoes through the room. "You want in? Fine. You're in. Don't come crying to me if this gets too much for you. This is personal." I'm determined to hold my face and not reveal my shock. Sure, Joe has shouted at us before, he's even waved a loaded gun in our face, but never have I ever seen him so riled up and exasperated. I grit my teeth so hard in an attempt to keep myself from lashing out; my jaw hurts. We all watch as he reaches into his trouser pocket and retrieves a small memory card. He gently places it on the desk, his careful actions so different from his aggressive behaviour moments earlier. We don't react, even though I can sense Jonas itching to grab his hands on it to reveal its many secrets. Joe slides it across the mahogany desk towards us. "You want in. This is you in."

"What is it?" Grant asks. Realisation hits me.

"It's everything the CIA has on 'The Chameleon'," I breathe out. Jonas snatches the card from the desk and instantly plugs it into his laptop.

"The Chameleon is at our school? The Chameleon is a woman?" asks Preston.

"Well done Preston, nice to see you using your redundant brain cells for once in a while," Joe drawls.

"What the hell? Is that why we were sent to school? To bring the Chameleon to the CIA?" I counter.

"No, my intention was always to send you boys to school so you could experience a normal life. You boys needed a break. You are all so young yet have experienced more than some of my adult agents have." Yay, here's the Joe we all know and love, not the previous angry Joe. That man's moods have more swings than a playground.

"Wait, so mum is scared about the Chameleon being at our school? asks Grant.

"Mate, she's probably worried that the Chameleon is gonna beat your ass into pulp, that's all," Preston quips in.

"Oh."

"Holy Einstein," Jonas breathes out in a tone that I can only assume as awe.

"What does Einstein have to do with this?" Preston exclaims.

"I'm sure it's Jonas' way of avoiding an expletive," I mumble, "right?" Jonas pays no attention, his fingers rapidly dancing over the keys accompanied by the furious tapping of the keys.

"The target is being attacked." My head snaps up at this.

Joe nods in confirmation, "someone is targeting the Chameleon, and they are trying to either take her out, or recruit her into their circle. An asset like her in a terrorist organisation could be deadly to America. Dr Steve has been hounding my ass to get FBI on this; apparently the CIA cannot handle it. You boys are my last chance to try and save her. I had thought against it, but since you are so eager, I'm giving this one to you." I watch Grant nod eagerly, and find myself reciprocating the action. God, it'll be good to get some action. Only three days out of the field and I'm itching to shoot something. "But boys, I want you to behave like normal teenagers. Find her by being normal; give her no indication that she is being hunted, or it'll make her run. We can't risk that. Abby and I will be on site to monitor you and to make sure you aren't taken out by this group."

"Hold up, who are they Joe?" He lets out a quick laugh and gestures in my direction. "Zach knows them. He got shot by them."

Christ, not again. I groan.

"Circle of Cavan."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Reviews appreciated! **


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

Cammie's POV

I didn't sleep last night. I was too busy researching the CIA. Their website is sleek, professional, straight to the point, informative. I learnt nothing.

I wake up to the sound of Lady Gaga assuring me that I was born this way, which made me groan and smack my alarm quickly. Her songs are annoyingly catchy and the last thing I need was to have that in my head all day.

"Cam? Are you up? We're leaving." Shit. Jane has to go to Dubai to report on some incident at the Burj Khalifa and so they decided to make a holiday trip out of it. John got cleared off work, Dylan is on school holiday, but I'm stuck in school. So, they get to enjoy a week in Dubai, whilst I'm alone in an empty house. What I would do to go to Dubai for a week! Suntan, beaches, cool drinks, shopping; who would miss an opportunity like that? I roll out of bed and throw on John's old university sweatshirt. The faded gold letters spell out Oxford. It was John's dream; he got there. I remember wearing that sweatshirt all the time when I was younger. Ever since Jane had told me that my own dad went to Oxford, that sweatshirt no longer belonged to John, but to me. It has its place in my drawer, in the left corner tucked away carefully lest any harm come to it. I lift up the overlong sleeves up to my face and bury my face into the soft royal blue fabric before remembering why I was up at this ungodly hour.

"Hold up, hold up, I'm coming," I shout as I run down the stairs two at a time. I jump the last four, landing on the floor in a crouch. I skit down the corridor, avoiding the bags and suitcases lined up on the side, and run into John's waiting arms.

"Oof," he gasps as I knock the air out of him. "Watch it Cookie, I'm not getting any younger here." I smile into his shirt and pull back to rub his hair.

"You're an old man already, Pookie." I turn to Jane who's carrying a sleeping Dylan on her hip. I lean over to give her a kiss on her cheek and I gently ruffle Dyl's hair.

"Don't forget. The stove only has three working hobs, and make sure you don't leave the gas on. Bang it three times hard to turn it off, the knob doesn't work. Oh, and shut the windows. If the toilet stops working, try flushing a lot, that sometimes works. And…"

I point at myself. "Seventeen girl, mature enough to live by herself for a week." I point at Jane. "Mother of two troublesome children, desperately in need of a break. Go."

John gently tugs on Jane's arm, "come on love, you've been as good as dismissed. Let's go." I laugh gently, and gently push them out of the door.

"Go, go, go, enjoy the sun, take pity on me, go," I drone on, all the while cajoling them into leaving the house. John smiles at me in thanks and picks up the suitcases walking out of the door towards the waiting taxi.

"I love you sweetie," Jane whispers as she kisses my cheek. I smile softly in return and wave them away. Those three words always take me by surprise. I have no doubt that those words apply to me, but I always get this stirring in me, down in the pits of my stomach. After years of feeling it, after years of being told I was loved, I finally placed it when I was eleven years old, and it has stuck with me ever since. Doubt. And it's horrible. But it can never go away, and I don't know why. So I take it as it comes. I stand at the door and wave at the retreating taxi until I can no longer see the exhaust fumes. I turn back around, close the door behind me and proceed to walk to the kitchen. A batch of chocolate chip pancakes will do me good. Of course, they won't be as good as Jane's, but it will still be pancake batter and chocolate.

"Right Cams, let's do this." I pet-talk myself, rubbing my hands together in anticipation and open the drawer to find the frying pan. I pull out the small red one, and smile at it. "Challenge numero uno, find frying pan, check!" I do the tick sign in the air as I close the drawer with a little bump from my hip. The doorbell rings, interrupting my little celebration and I frown in confusion. No one calls at 6:56 on a Wednesday morning. Jane must have forgotten something.

"Please don't tell me you forgot the passports…" I trail off as I open the door.

"Good morning Miss."

"Oh hell. You haven't forgotten your passports," I breathe out as I appraise the three men standing at my front door. The first one has the emotional capacity to look a little bit confused. A flare of anxiety starts in my lower abdomen, like butterflies that are running rampant. With claws.

"Miss, you have to come with us." I raise an eyebrow at the front man, the one who seems to be in charge.

Leaning against the wall, I sigh, "and what do you think is gonna make me come with you?" I retort, rotating my left wrist to swing the frying pan around in an attempt to bring light to the potentially dangerous blunt weapon in my hand. Goon number 1 brought his hand back to his left hip to pull the suit jacket back slightly. My eyes are drawn to Beretta 92 stuffed into a holster attached to his belt. Damn. My poor frying pan wouldn't be able to cope against that semi-automatic pistol. I drop the pan with a clang and raise my hands in the universal surrender sign. "But hey boys, can I please just get something upstairs before we leave for the Pentagon?"

"Who says we're going to the Pentagon," snaps Goon number 3.

I snort, "three men in black suits, definitely DOD, FBI or CIA. Couple that information with the fact that the CIA redacted every single file on my friends, and myself and by the fact that you are carrying a Beretta, which isn't used by the FBI, I think I can safely say that you are CIA. Now, my sources say that the CIA, being the cocky little twats you are, are trying to stake your own little headquarters at the Pentagon. So, Pentagon it is." I give myself an imaginary congratulatory clap to myself, I was correct in my observations judging by the bemused expression on the men. Cammie 1, CIA goons 0.

"Right, well, I'll be right down. One second boys." I turn around to walk up the stairs, unsurprised by the sounds of three heavy sets of footsteps following me. Walking into my room, I grab my school backpack and unceremoniously dump all my books and files on the floor with a thud beside the goons' feet. I give a snarky smile as I walk over to my dresser where I pick up my most prized possession. The only thing I have of my parents. My hand instinctively reaches out to stroke the glossy photograph of them. The top of my finger trails along the side of my mother's cheek as my thumb plays with the lower right hand corner. I feel the familiar moisture creep into my eyes as I study their happy faces. It was taken a week before they died. Mum cradles me tenderly in her arms, her twinkling eyes staring right out of the photo to meet mine. Her hands are wrapped around my baby form, her touch soft and warm. Dad stares in wonder at mum, as if he is lucky to love her. His adoration and pure love is so obvious it's almost intimate in its intensity. It hits me every time. My lips lift up in a half-smile as I hear the man behind me clearing his throat in impatience. An arm is placed on my wrist, with enough pressure to not be threatening, but enough to convey the message to hurry up. I tug my arm out of his grasp whilst placing the photograph deep in my pockets. Picking the backpack off of the floor, I chuck random articles of clothing in the bag, as well as some toiletries and chargers. I don't pack shower supplies, I assume the Pentagon has those, if not, I'm incredibly disappointed and in will be in a bit of a predicament. I'll take my chances.

"Lead the way boys," I say once I had finished packing up. I turn round over my shoulder to take one long last look at my room, fully aware that I might not be able to return for a few days. I don't believe in God, but whoever is up there, wherever 'there' is, thanks a bunch for taking everyone away on holiday. Great timing. I follow the men down the stairs and out of the front door where I am greeted with the sight of a sleek black town car.

"So stereotypical," I mutter to myself, earning a glare from Goon number 1. I smile sweetly back at him in retort. One of the men pushes me into the car and sits down next to me. The interior is black. What a surprise. The leather smells new and there isn't a mark on the black upholstery. There is an opaque screen that blocks the view of the front two seats, and the windows are as black as night. The only light in the car is from the single white bulb in the centre of the ceiling, which illuminates the side of the man's face. I hear the deep rumble of the engine starting, the power of its acceleration vibrating through the seats. Definitely a V5 litre engine. I sit back against one of the windows, and pull my hands up to the back of head, stretching out my legs in the spacious back seat, careful not to stretch too much otherwise my feet would end up in the man's lap.

"So," I drawl, attempting to make conversation. It's at least an hours drive from here to the Pentagon, might as well spend it well. "What's your name?" I ask digging my foot into the man's thigh to get his attention. I hear his small, barely audible sigh. But his mouth doesn't open.

"Okay," I respond to the silence. "So how did you get roped into the CIA huh? You can't be more than twenty five!" I lean forward tucking my legs underneath me so I am mere centimetres from his face. Glancing down for just a second, I see a small slit of white protruding from out of his jacket pocket. I grin: jackpot. I lean forward even more. Keeping my eyes glued onto his side profile, my fingers slowly inch down until I feel the hard plastic against the pads of my fingertips. "You must either have an IQ of above 175, which is unlikely. I mean, come on," I gesture to him, "look at you. All muscle and sinew," I remark poking him in the chest to prove my point. And damn, I was right. At my touch, I notice him stiffen and tighten his jaw, making his face more angular and even more robotic like. Gently I slide out the card against the soft fabric of the suit, careful not to apply too much pressure so not to alert him of my little deed. Once I have the card safely in the grip of my hand I slip on my legs so my back is once again against the window. With an exaggerated sigh of discontent, I tut and shake my head at the man sitting stoically in front of me. "Agent John Ward, you are atrocious. How the hell did you become an agent?" I see him visibly flinch and scowl at the mention of his name and I smile in victory.

"How do you know my name." It wasn't phrased as a question but more of a statement. His jaw is clenched so hard I'm surprised I haven't heard bone gnashing against bone.

"Ah, it speaks! That must have really hurt," I retort whilst waving about the plastic card in his face, "you look so much uglier in person than you do in your I.D. Strange that, it's usually the other way round." I slip the I.D card back into his pocket, patting the black fabric back in place. I wait for his response, glad that I have gotten a reaction out of him. It's nice to know that they are not invincible and faultless. I watch as Ward tilts his head in annoyance and sharply knocks on the screen separating us from the front seats. With a small whirring sound, the screen rises slowly and a hand clad in a black glove reaches out and places something into Ward's waiting one. The screen closes back down and Ward leans back in his seat. He turns his head to the side and I see the corner of his smile twitch upwards momentarily. Its one of relief mixed in with evil. I don't like it. I scoot back so that my back is flush against the edge of the car and retrieve my legs so that they are no longer in his vicinity. I keep my face dead straight, but my eyes travel to my right, wary of the man sitting next to me with his hand clenched around something.

"Cameron Ann Morgan." I turn around at the sound my name in his melodious voice. I feel it before I see it. The sharp prick and the feeling of something jammed into your skin, infiltrating you.

"Fuck." I mutter, but words come out slurred as I regard the two-inch long needle sticking out of my forearm, the green vial of liquid slowly disappearing into my bloodstream. I hate needles.

* * *

Zach's POV

"Remind me why I am here again instead of at school learning the importance of organic chemistry?" I ask sarcastically as I lean back on the chair, pushing my feet up on the oak table and balancing on two chair legs. The phone rang earlier this morning requesting our urgent presence at the Pentagon today. I can't say I wasn't surprised considering we are meant to be on leave, but I was a little bit annoyed because I'm missing football practice. I'm desperate to get onto the football team so I wanted to go to practice to get in Coach's good books. At least, that is what I told everyone else when asked why I was kicking up a fuss earlier. But let's be real, of course I'm going to be on the team, who wouldn't pick me over some lousy young quarterback who's idea of a workout is five minutes on the bench.

"New recruits came in today, we need to start their training." Jonas replies with a sigh. "I hope one of them has an IQ higher than 100, it would really be refreshing to be around someone who has some intelligence." Preston scoffs and claps Jonas on the back, evidently too hard as the genius starts spluttering.

_'The Director will see you now.' _

A woman's voice filters through the speaker overhead. Her name is Shelley. You know how in Iron Man, Tony Stark has a computerised system called Jarvis? Well Shelley is our version of him, except she is decked out with more intellectual technology that is far from my comfort zone. Jonas can explain it well. He tried to make me understand once. And failed. I roll back the seat and jump up, walking over to Grant who has fallen asleep in the chair, his limbs compressed together so that he is rolled up in a ball that fits snugly in his chair. Don't ask me how the hell he fits all his body in there. I clap my hands in his face quickly to wake him up before walking past him, out of the door into the steel coloured corridor filled with bright ultraviolet lights. Thirty steps down; I turn to face an iron door with no handle. Beside it to the right is a keypad with a screen above it. The rest of the boys catch up behind me, Grant further behind than the rest, still half-asleep. He takes long to wake up; we think he was dropped on his head when he was a baby. I touch the 9 squares that are raised on the keypads with the numbers etched in black on them. My fingers punch in the 24-digit code that is tattooed to every heart of a CIA agent. There are different ones for different floors of the Pentagon. Since we occupy the fourth floor, I have used this code so many times in my life that it is basically like me reciting my date of birth. I lean my head forward so that my eyes are now level with the screen above the keypad. I stare directly into the CIA emblem that occupies the middle of the screen. It's a retina scanner, because anyone can learn a 24-digit code, but not everyone can have the same retina as me. Yay science. The green line scans across my face and blinks twice confirming that I actually am Zachary Goode.

"_Welcome Agent Goode." _

The metal block in front of me swings open mechanically to reveal a darkened room where two figures stand ominously together.

"Thanks Shell," I reply and walk through the door and into the bleak darkness.

"Goode, Newman, Anderson, Winters, took your sweet little time didn't you?" Dr Steve steps out of the darkness like a super villain in a Marvel movie. He's got that role hands down.

I hold my hands up in mock surrender and say, "Shelley, only told us to come in just now. Blame the computer." I collapse down into the waiting armchair and stare at one of the walls which is covered in glass. On the other side of the glass is four figures slumped in chairs with black cotton bags over their heads and their hands handcuffed behind them to the chair – they are obviously the newbies. The black bags and handcuffs are useless. The glass separating us is bulletproof and the walls and doors are made of a resistant concrete and iron mixture. You would have needed several sticks of dynamite to get out, and guards have already made sure that the recruits have nothing on them. So it really all is pointless, but the CIA have always been ones for dramatics.

"Four new recruits?" Preston asks sceptically. To be honest, it is quite surprising to have four come in at the same time. They usually are recruited in drips and drabs, the only major group recruitment was us four, and we have been the best so far.

"So," I drawl, "what are we dealing with here? Men, women, ages, backgrounds, I'm gonna need everything if you want me to help you train these useless morons." I turn around and grin at the boys, who all reciprocate it. We know we are the best, no new group of recruits is gonna beat us. That's why they call us the Alpha unit, or A-team for short. I hear Dr Steve scoff behind me but ignore him. He tried putting a team together that would surpass us. He always had a vendetta against Joe ever since he became Director, and he spent a lot of time and money trying to train those brain-dead zombies to try and create a unit. Let's just say that they became the Echo-unit, and leave it at that.

"Careful Zach." I hear Joe say as he comes to stand beside me. "They are far from useless these four."

I turn to him with my eyebrows raised in surprise, "oh yeah?" I challenge. His eyes bore into mine – frankly, when he does that it is incredibly unnerving.

"I'm banking on it," he breathes out. A mechanical thud echoes around the room as four guards in black emerge through the door with machine rifle guns. The door swings shut behind them with a resounding echo as they march across the room, one guard standing behind each one of the figures in the chair. Joe's words have got my interest piqued about these new ones. I stand up and walk over to the edge of the room so that my face is millimetres away from the glass. The guards stare back at the glass unflinchingly as though they can see us. They can't, it's one-way, but its still unsettling as their black eyes glower straight ahead. There's movement to my right and I look over to see Dr Steve lean down into a small microphone. He presses the red button.

"Uncover them." His voice is like a snake: rough and sharp but silky at the same time. The guards respond immediately and take a step forward simultaneously, so that they are standing at the side of each of the recruits. I'm excited. I don't know why, I have trained many recruits, but this lot has Joe's praise, which is something hard earned. With a flourish, the guards whip off the bags and the unconscious faces of four people are unveiled. My eyes dart over the faces of every recruit from right to left, plugging them into memory. They are all girls, roughly eighteen years old I would presume. They look weak. Grant stands up suddenly and presses his hands against the glass with pressure. He breathes out and fogs up the glass in front of him.

"Well, fuck me."

I frown and follow his gaze to the blonde girl the furthest left. Recognition floods my senses as her face lies there impassively. Anger, agitation, annoyance.

Well double fuck me.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoy! Reviews and PM's are appreciated! Come chat :)**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

"Cammie?" Grant asks in confusion. So that's her name. The little blonde girl who sits next to me in chemistry. She's feisty. I can give her that, but definitely not CIA material. How does Grant know her?

"You know her?" I ask sceptically.

"Yeah," he nods, his eyes fixed onto the four girls. "We bumped into each other and chatted. She's nice."

I scoff in response. "She is far from nice." Grant's light-hearted mood dissipates and he fixes me with a stern stare, which I return.

"Wake them up," Joe commands, and the guards respond by pulling out a needle with a brown looking liquid inside. They plunge the needle straight into the jugular vein without mercy. I wince in sympathy with the girls; I've had my fair share of injections.

The brown haired girl wakes up first, gasping as her eyes adjust to the bright light in the room. Her head whips from side to side and take in the stoic posture of the guards whilst her eyes narrow in frustration."My father is so bloody important, if he finds out about this, you would be buried in so much shit you wouldn't be able to see the goddamn sun!"

Preston laughs beside me, "ah, the typical 'my daddy will hear about this' line."

Joe clears his throat behind us, "her father is in fact a very powerful guy. He's the American ambassador for France." Woah. Fancy guy. I turn my head back to the thrashing girl who seems have to be joined by a companion. "The first girl is Macey McHenry. She is the powerful daughter of a powerful man."

"What are her skills? What makes her special?" Preston snaps, his eyes narrowing into slits as he studies the girl. "She looks weak."

"She might be. But she's yours to train." Joe retorts. I watch Preston roll his eyes. Ha, he has his work cut out.

"Jonas, that's Liz Sutton. IQ of 195, 1 less than you, she's yours." Jonas nods. He must be happy. Finally, someone he can talk science mumbo jumbo to. Muffled shouts come from the room now that three out of the four girls have woken up. Cammie seems to still be in sleepy land. Figures, she seems like the lazy type.

"Rebecca Baxter. I have it on good authority that if you call her Rebecca you will need to protect your goods. Call her Bex. She is probably the most qualified out of the lot. Parents are MI5, she has combat training, can shoot straight. She's yours Grant." Shit. No.

"Joe, I cannot have Cammie. Give Bex to me, Grant will have Cammie."

"Yeah," Grant quips up, "uh, yeah. They aren't the best of friends. I'll take Cammie, Zach can have Bex"

"Zach. You will have Cammie. She's the weakest. You will train her. No buts."

Shit. Ugh, trust me to be stuck with Cammie. What kind of a name is Cammie? And she's the weakest. Fuck me. This is just great. I miss football for this. Preston pats me sympathetically on the shoulder. I can almost feel his grin. Grant gets Bex! She's pretty hot, nice to look at that's for sure, and she has training. She's the perfect trainee. I'm gonna have to get to know her better at some point. I look back into the room and see the three girls now released and crouched around Cammie who still hasn't woken up. The timer beeps from the desk in front. Times up. She still hasn't woken up.

I groan in frustration and march out of the door followed by the rest. Letting the door slam behind me, I burst through the room holding the girls. They all gasp as I march towards them. God I'm angry. Furious. I walk over to Cammie; undo the handcuffs from her wrists, the guards beside me not doing anything. Macey launches herself at me and rips my hands from Cammie.

"Let her go!" she cries as her hands start to slap mine away. With a growl I push her away so she lands on the floor with a breath. I release Cammie from the handcuffs and reach my hand out to the guard next to her.

"Give me the drug now," I growl as I reach out my hand again. He stands immobile.

"Zach," Jonas' voice filters through the intercom, "she needs the antidote now. She's had an overdose. I've just scanned her blood, the bacteria are reproducing quicker than I expected."

"Now!" I shout as I hear the girls crying behind me. The blonde one starts to stroke Cammie's hair and god there are so many tears everywhere. Girls crying around me aren't really helping right now. The guard finally reaches into his back pocket to retrieve a vial of red liquid and places it in my hand. I shoo the girls away with a flick of my hand and kneel beside the unconscious girl. Grant is consoling the girls and reassuring them. Preston kneels beside me and checks her pulse, counting the beats. Joe has gone and punched the guard. The stupid idiot should have known that he answers to me and that I have authority here.

I sweep Cammie's blonde hair away so that a part of her fair neck is exposed. Trying to remember my human anatomy classes I locate the jugular vein using the pads of my fingers and in one swift swoop I plunge the needle into the vein, pushing the plunger down so that the red liquid slowly ebbs away and enters her body. I throw the empty vial away and stand up. I nod over to Joe who nods back in permission.

I exit the room. Too much drama for 10 o'clock in the morning.

* * *

Cammie's POV

"Wake up."

My eyes blink open rapidly to reveal the blurry face of a man staring down at me, his eyes furiously narrowed. Strange man? Oh yeah. Pentagon. I got drugged.

"I won't ask you again. Wake up girl." I lift my hand up and give it an experimental wave. "Get up. You are needed down in the Long Room now."

Ugh. Fine. I'll get up. I don't appreciate being called 'girl'. That term should not be applied to females above the age of thirteen, it is patronizing and incredibly infuriating. I lift up the duvet and swing my legs over so they dangle over the side of the bed. Woah. Clothes.

"Who dressed me?" I ask, surprised at the rough deep tone of my voice. I sound like I have slept for years.

"Hurry up. We have a schedule."

"Christ okay, okay I'm coming." I say as I appraise the black yoga pants and black top I have found myself in. It does actually matter; someone would have had to strip me to get me into this. I jump out of the bed and raise my arms up to stretch and yawn at the same time. I roll my neck, hearing it click and wince at the sound. The man walks on ahead out of the white door, and I quickly jump into action and follow him out of the room. Taking a glance back at the room, I see three other beds that are made and little bedside tables beside each of them. The room is painted with a washed out white that seems dirty in comparison to the stark bleached white of the furniture. I turn round swiftly and run out of the door in pursuit of the strange man.

As soon as I exit the door I am greeted with metal. Metal corridors, metals doors, metal water fountains, metal everything. It is so cold. The man retreats around the corner and nestles into the crowd of men in black suits. I run after him, anxious to find him again. I turn around the corner to be faced with the exact replica of the corridor behind me. I falter a little in my steps in confusion. I need a bloody map to navigate the Pentagon. The man has disappeared. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. I walk forward slightly and step amid the mass of men and women in pinstripe black suits with ties and crisp white shirts. I don't even remember what the man looked like! I glance up at the mass of figures around me, walking around doing their business, talking, whispering, methodically, mechanically. I collide with someone hard, my head bumping into the stone chest. I topple backwards from the collision but just as I am about to fall to my knees strong arms wrap around my forearms and bring me back the vertical so that I come face to face with a white tee.

"You are so small." I look up in surprise at the familiar voice.

"Newbie?"

He snorts. "Zach."

Finally, a name. "What are you doing here?" I question. I watch carefully as his eyebrows knit together in confusion for a second before they relax. I let my eyes rake down his body and take in his clothing. He has a black leather jacket over a white tee that strain deliciously over his bulging muscles. Damn. His black jeans follow his legs down to where black combat boots adorn his feet. All he needs now is some aviators and he would totally look at place in the Pentagon. Pentagon. Wait. What the hell is he doing here?

"What are you doing here Blondie?" Zach replies as he walks forwards and starts to circle me. I can feel his intense eyes boring into my skin as he completes what feels like an inspection of me and comes back to the front, facing me once more. I narrow my eyes as his eyes linger to long at my chest before they look upwards to meet mine.

"I asked you first." I retort and cross my arms in front of me, defiant. He gives me an elegant shrug and winks quickly at me. How does he do that and make it look sexy at the same time? He leans forward and brushes one of my stray curls away from the side of my cheek. The backs of his fingers momentarily touch my skin, shooting tingles up my arm and I involuntarily shiver. He chuckles slightly in my ear at my reaction. I stare dead straight ahead.

"That's for me to know, and you to find out, Blondie." God damn him! Spy, agent? He's too young, surely! He leans back again, but he deliberately brushes his lips against my cheek. All thoughts of his occupation rushes out of my brain as my skin comes alive at the contact and the tingles start flowing through my arms, raising goose bumps on the flesh that is exposed by the tank top. I wrap my arms around myself to hide them. It will only inflate his ego more. Fuck! Why does my body have to react in such a way? Goddamn boys and their fucking signals. And damn you hormones. I look up slightly, smile sultry and waltz past him, making sure to swing my hips in his direction.

Fine. If he wants to play, let's play.

"That's an adorable shade of red!" he calls to me as I increase the distance between us. Ugh. Asshole. I stick my middle finger back up at him.

"Morgan!"

I hear a voice call my name down the corridor and I smile in success. Looks like I won't need his help in getting around.

"Coming," I shout back, and follow the direction of the voice. Before I round the corner I turn my head over my shoulder and look back at Zach who is smirking at me like he owns the world. Looking like that, he bloody well could. He is leaning against the wall, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and his eyes daring me to come back and play. I absorb his gaze for a second before winking at him as I disappear round the corner.

Fuck me.

* * *

"Um, excuse me!"

Macey exclaims as she stands up from her chair, her mouth open in surprise. Typical. Drama queen stuff. I found the man. He was upset to say the least, but I was just glad to be out of Zach's net. Man, he's good. I knew he was a player, I mean, with a body and face like that, and let's not mention the large oversized ego, of course he was gonna be. I got reunited with the other girls. Apparently I was sick and drugged. Last thing I remembered was stupid Ward injecting me with a green needle. According to Bex, Zach saved my life and that I should thank him the next time I see him. Ha. Yeah. Sure. I can't believe he saved my life. I bet I wasn't even that sick and that the girls are just exaggerating.

We all got sat down in front of a man called Joe. Bex is handcuffed to her seat after she was apprehended when she tried to escape. All this time, I just sat in my chair. I knew and know that escape is futile. There are two guards stationed at every door and they are equipped with AK-47's as well as Berettas. Windows are bulletproof and can only be opened by a remote control that is currently located in Joe's trouser pocket. At least, that is what I think. There is a small rectangular object located in his pocket; it is most probable that it is the remote. He also has a Beretta tucked into the inside of his suit pocket. Of course, Bex didn't know this and thought she could escape. I mentally send over a 'nice try' to Bex. She should know better, after all, she is the daughter of two MI5 agents. Well, it turns out Joe is the Director of the CIA, and he wants to train us to be agents. I nearly laughed at loud at that point.

Actually, I did. A burst of giggle escaped my lips a second before I clamped my hand around my mouth. I shoot an apologetic glance at Macey who is glaring daggers at everyone who looks at her.

"My father is the…"

"Yes Miss McHenry, we know all about your father." Joe replies impassively.

At this Bex looks up threateningly, "then you know about my parents."

Joe looks dead straight at her. "Abe and Grace Baxter. Married in 1994. One daughter, Rebecca Baxter. Agents of MI5 since 1889. They are good friends of mine. We have worked together on several occasions."

Bex's mouth closes, shutting down that attempted threat immediately.

Joe pauses and looks at all four of us, his eyes sweeping across us. "Look girls. I need you. We have been following you for seven months, and the council and I have come to a decision that you could be an asset to the agency. There is a threat at your school, and you are ideally placed to act. We have other agents of your age that are also stationed at the school, but as well as you helping out on this mission, we sincerely hope you would stay and become training agents. Our youth programme needs extra recruits and your country needs you."

I scoff at the end of his speech and lift myself out of the armchair I have folded myself into.

"That's great. Thank you very much for your inspirational patriotic speech sir, but if you don't mind, I'll take my leave. I refuse." Joe nods almost in understanding. He acts like he expected this. He should have.

"I'll join."

I spin around to face Liz, who has kept quiet through this whole ordeal.

"What?" I question, my eyes boring into her small blue ones.

"I said, I'll join." She stands up and walks over to me. She's smaller than me by an inch or so, but she still manages to stare me down as she places a firm hand on my arm.

"What?" I whisper. "C'mon Liz. You don't want to do this. It's too dangerous," I urge pleadingly with her.

She smiles softly at me, "I want to. Imagine the good I can do with the CIA. I can't flourish in the normal world, you know this."

No Liz. God, I want to scream some sense into her, but I know she is right.

"C'mon Cammie. Join," she whispers back.

I look over her shoulder at Bex and Macey. "Are you seriously doing this?" I ask in a loud voice, just a few decibels lower than shouting. "Why?"

Bex shrugs. "It's in my blood." Bex replies solemnly. "I have always wanted this, you know that. Remember those spy games we used to play when we were younger?" She gives me a small smile. "And you know it Cammie, this will be good for you. You have always been the feisty one. School could never pacify you. You always wanted more. More excitement. More adventure. More everything. Think how much 'more' the CIA can give you." I shake my head slowly so that I can get her true words out of my head. No, no, no. This is not normal.

Macey speaks up next. "We have to be in this together Cam. We stick together." I lift my head up so that I look straight at Macey. She's right.

Fuck it all.

* * *

I find myself in a large hall with large skylights that let the spring sunshine shine down, illuminating the dusty space. It's just us four here alone. I lie on the floor, one arm propping up my head from the hard wooden floorboards, the other resting across my eyes so that I can close my eyes and see darkness. After I agreed, we were shuffled out of Joe's office by some guards in black body armour into this hall without a word. To be honest, I'm not surprised at my decision. Bex said it. I have always wanted more. Maybe this will be my more.

Footsteps break through my thought process: large, thudding steps that reverberate through the room and through the floorboards.

Five sets. Five people have entered. I don't get up.

I hear them get closer and closer until they stop right next to where my head lies on the floor. Sighing, I lift my arm off my eyes and I look straight up at a man who is glaring down his moustache at me. He is wearing the same black body armour like everyone else in this place. His hands are balled in fists at his side and his eyes and flashing in my direction. My God, he looks furious, his ginger moustache is almost bristling with energy.

"Hi," I murmur as I give him a small wave. Better to start off polite I guess.

Big ape-man looks over his shoulder, "is this one yours?" The thick Irish accent is so prominent in the man's voice, and combined with his ginger hair, he looks like an oversized leprechaun. I struggle to hold in my chuckle, but then I remember his words. I frown in confusion. I'm no ones. I pull myself up so that I am standing in front of him: my head barely coming up to his shoulders. Is this how they breed them in Ireland? Like huge giants?

"Yes sir," comes the reply. The fuck? I look over the Leprechaun's shoulder to see green eyes glinting back at me, daring to retort.

"Hey Blondie." I glare back before switching my eyes over to the big man.

"What is he doing here?"

Zach comes forward till he stands beside Lep. A slow grin starts at one corner of his mouth, whilst rebellious flames lick behind the green of his eyes.

"Agent Goode, Blondie. You'll do well to remember my name."

Agent? What? He's an agent? That explains a whole goddamn lot, like how he knows chemistry that is taught at university, and his place in the Pentagon. Let's not forget, he fulfils the typical hot young agent stereotype. Images of him in his leather jacket flick through my mind again. Ha, he definitely fulfils that. That's pretty cool to be honest, but I don't appreciate deception.

"And you'll do well to remember mine," I retort.

"Oh yes, Cameron," he drawls, "educate me Blondie, isn't that a boy's name?"

I growl before launching myself at him, aiming a punch to his chest, but instead of eliciting his pain, I hear the cracking of my knuckles against his rock hard chest, and sharp jabs of pain shoot up my arm.

"Fuck! What are you? Rock?" I call loudly as I cradle my poor hand against my own chest. I don't notice the chuckling until Zach's eyes break away from mine to view the others sniggering behind. Even Lep has a small upturn of his lips on his red face. Bex's eyes are twinkling with mirth, just like when someone cracks a joke that is actually funny. Some of the other boys behind are laughing openly, even with Zach glaring at them.

"That's enough," Lep grumbles, finally taking control of the situation. I drop my hand from my chest so that it rests by my side. It still throbs; the knuckles are still white over the red skin. I lift my eyes to meet Zach's and I put as much of my anger through them. If looks could kill, he would be bleeding to death by now, with knives embedded into his stomach. I would be as well by now, as his eyes are filled with as much venom as mine own.

"Trainees. I will be overseeing your training. You will call me Sir. No more I can't, I won't. You can and you will." Lep points at me for emphasis. "You'll do whatever I ask. If I ask you to braid your pretty blonde hair in pigtails and sing I'm a little teapot, you'll ask in what key sir."

Why does everyone reference to my blonde hair?

"You have an agent assigned to you each," Lep continues, "Baxter, you have Morgan."

Shit. I want Grant. He's only one I know apart from the jerk. He would be fun.

"McHenry, you get Winters. Don't kill each other. Sutton, you have Anderson. Your IQ's will be enough to keep you busy for the time being. You have training different to the others. See if we can stretch ya shall we? Morgan, you got Goode. Don't take out one of my assets, ya hear me?"

My eyes widen in response. No, no, no, no.

Zach walks over to me like a predator, and I watch as his eyes rake over me. "Looks like it's just you and me Blondie," he says quietly. I watch as Macey Bex and Liz walk over the separate corners of the room, conversing with their partners easily enough. If only it could be just as easy for me. My eyes flicker back to Zach as we soundlessly look at each other for just a second. God, his eyes are so green. There's a dark ring of forest green on the outside, encompassing a bright vibrant green that has flecks of light brown scattered throughout them.

His eyes look down to where my hands are and he gently lifts my right one, the one that is still sore and red from hitting his goddamn chest. He lifts it so that it rests between us. "Next time you hit someone, wrap your thumb along the outside, and don't tuck it into your fist. Keep your wrist straight, and aim to connect with the first two knuckles," Zach murmurs, whilst playing with my hand with feather light touches, moulding it into the right shape as he speaks. "Like this," he says, tracing a finger across my knuckles, and then holding my closed fist against his chest, showing me how to land my punch most effectively. "Now try again with the other hand."

"You want me to hit you again?"

"I need to know that you've learned how to throw a punch. If you keep doing it wrong, you'll end up with a broken wrist. Now do it again," he speaks, whilst gesturing to his chest.

"It'll hurt," I blurt out, whilst clenching my left hand into a fist like he taught me. He laughs, and I narrow my eyes in annoyance.

"I doubt that very much somehow. You're just a small adorable little thing."

"Careful. This small adorable little thing bites. Didn't I hurt you just a little bit?" I question, dropping my fist in defeat.

He leans in slightly, "I barely felt it," he retorts quietly.

That's it. I take advantage of his close proximity and punch him again with my left fist. It definitely hurt a lot less, but god, it's like punching a cement wall. His facial expression barely flickers with recognition of me hitting him.

"Better." He nods over to a punching bag that hanging off a metal bar protruding out from the wall. He walks behind it and pushes his weight against it. "Hit this two hundred times in succession. Then, I'll teach you how to kick. And then, maybe I will be able to feel you trying." I walk up to the punching bag and hit it once with as much force as I can muster.

"Fuck you Newbie," I grunt as I punch it again.

He laughs in return, "I'm counting on it, Blondie."

* * *

**A/N: A lot happens here! Review, PM, come chat and tell me what you think! **


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

Grant's POV

"You're good."

I comment as I watch Bex punch the battered bag repeatedly and then deliver a solid roundhouse kick. She grunts in return and then gives me a genuine smile. Our relationship has greatly improved if I may say so myself. About two hours ago, we were bad.

There are three things that I have learnt about Rebecca Charlotte Baxter since meeting her.

Number one: Joe was right.

I made the mistake of calling her Rebecca earlier when we were practising her punches. She stopped suddenly and whipped her head around so that her grey eyes were able to fix me with a glare that held promise of a slow and painful death. Then she launched at me like a cat: the momentum barrelling me down to the floor. I caged her in my arms as I fell and I landed on my back with a thud, pushing the air out of my lungs. Trust me to land on a part of the gym that isn't covered by foamy mats. Straddled on my waist, she started to rain down punches on my body: punches that I had taught her to perfect. I recognised the irony. I let her have her fun whilst I shielded my face with my arms held up. She needed to learn to take advantage of a fight, so I let her continually attack me. It wasn't like she was causing me any grievous a while, I had expected her to give up, but she didn't.

That's when I learnt the second thing about Bex. She is the most stubborn girl I have ever had the misfortune to meet.

I gathered her arms up with my hands, catching her flailing fists. I sat up so that I came face to face with her. I could feel her hot breath on my cheek, and the tendrils of her damp hair tickling my cheek. I watched with intent, as she furiously tried to pull out my grip, cute little noises of frustration escaping her mouth. Her grey eyes glinted madly, the fluorescent lights above us reflected in her deep gaze. We stared at each other for a second, the tension so smothering I had to break her gaze. I had never felt that way before. Her eyes locked me in place and I could feel the intensity of her look, I swear I got goose bumps from it. I looked down her jawline, following the smooth line hidden beneath the tanned skin. Her jaw was clenched so tight. I allowed a small victory smile to grace my face because firstly, I had trapped Bex in my arms successfully, and secondly, she was sitting in my lap, her face so close to me that our noses were just touching.

"Never call me that. You'll regret it." She growled this and I couldn't help but recognise the creases in the middle of her forehead that appear when her eyes squint at me.

I laughed easily at her threat, "don't think you are in the position to be calling the shots here Bex." Her eyes narrowed further to slits, and I replicated her gaze.

"Do you want me to threaten you? Please give me a reason because I'd like nothing more than to introduce your nose to my fist." God, even when she's threatening me, she's captivating.

Number three: Rebecca Baxter is so goddamn beautiful.

"Call this working out?"

I immediately snapped out of my thoughts and leapt back, pushing Bex off my lap. I looked up to see Joe standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and a look of amusement dancing across his features.

"I was counting on you setting the standard around here," he said. I raised my eyebrows in question. "Macey and Preston started fighting straightaway. Their personalities are too similar, but who else can handle Miss McHenry?" I heard Bex snort to my left.

"Liz and Jonas are getting along well. I think. They immediately hit it off because they were suddenly sprouting computing science technical words left right and centre. I studied chemistry. I haven't got any chance at understanding them. And Zach and Cammie. Well."

I nodded my head; I had already witnessed the dynamic between those two at the school. And Zach is an asshole; he has been ever since he ranked first in Academy and found out that he was better than everybody else. He's not a people's person, never has been. But us boys have grown up together, worked together, fought together. Our bond is stronger than a friendship and so we can handle Zach, we have learned to. However, when Zach meets new people, he pushes them away with his cocky I-know-I'm-the-best attitude.

"I gave you Miss Baxter because she is easy and you can make her the best. So make her the best. And people don't become the best by lying on top of each other in the gym." I felt heat rise to my cheeks at his subtle accusation and immediately adopted a professional stance.

"Yes sir." I grunted out. Joe nodded and shot me a quick smile before turning on his heel and walked straight out of the room.

"Who is he?" I turned around to see Bex beside the punching bag, her fists raised to her face.

"Joe?" I walked over to the bag and leant against the other side so that it doesn't swing as she punches.

"Yeah," she breathed out as her punches resume again, her feet dancing around, hopping from one to the other to keep bouncy like I taught her too.

"He's the Director of the CIA. And like a surrogate big brother to us all." I could feel her gaze prompting me to explain further. "He was our trainer at the Academy before we became full on agents. He was there when we broke bones, failed our missions, needed help studying language exams, everything." I shrugged, "then he became the Director and now is like our own supervisor. He's a good man. And if he wants you girls to become agents, then he obviously saw something in you. Potential. And it's my job to make sure you utilise that to your maximum so that you can be the best you can be."

"Oh."

Her answering smile was bright and her face lit up. She looks cute when she is smiling truly. She gets these dimples in the creases of her cheeks that are adorable. "Okay then. Let's do this. Teach me. I wanna be the best." I smiled in return.

"First of all, we need to build up your strength and stamina. You have the technique." I walked round to her and wrapped her my hand around her bicep lightly. "Definitely not strong enough. God, you're arms are like chicken legs, they're so thin!" She jerked her arm out of my grasp in exasperation and frowned.

"How do I get stronger?"

"Gym, Becca." The word was out of my mouth before I could even think about it. I like Bex, but Becca seems to suit her better. I anticipated her outrage, and I brace myself for attack. I watched as her brows furrowed and her step faltered. Her grey eyes locked onto mine and I gave her a small hopeful smile.

"You ok with Becca?" She fell into step with me, our arms barely touching.

She looked up at me and returned my smile, "yeah. Becca's good."

* * *

Cammie's POV

"Shoot!"

My finger pulls the trigger, my body tensed in anticipation for the gun's kickback. I take the force and grunt as I am launched backwards in air. I drop the gun as I flail my arms, attempting to gain balance, but I before I land on the cold hard ground, I find myself wrapped up in iron arms. I look upwards towards Zach's face, which is melted into a frown directed straight at me. With a jerk, he pushes me out of his arms suddenly, and once again I find myself falling backwards. Zach's hand shoots out and wraps around my forearm, gripping tight, and pulls me to a vertical position once more.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Zach asks; his tone is dripping with venom.

God. What the hell am I doing here? I struggle to stand upright, but with his arms steadying me I find my balance. I pull my arms out of his grasp and massage my upper forearms where his grip happened to be a bit too tight. Bruises tomorrow. Fantastic. I feel so useless. What am I doing here? I walk backwards, my eyes downcast until I feel the wooden chair hit the backs of my legs. I collapse into it and bring my knees up, wrapping them in my embrace as I bury my head. I'm done. I want to go home, back to my safe haven with John and Jane and little Dylan. I hear Zach grunt nearby in exasperation. Guess the two of us are both feeling like shit now.

Lifting my head up, I watch Zach crouch low behind cement blockade, his handgun held pointing up against his chest. The pungent scents of sweat and gunpowder hang heavy in the air as he inches closer to the edge of the barrier, his head cocked to one side, listening for the slightest movement. Once satisfied there is none, he pivots around and shoots to his feet, his weapon raised and pointed out in front of him. A wooden human-shaped target pops up from behind another structure. Zach squeezes the trigger, letting off several rounds and riddling the dummy with bullets before it even straightened into its final position. The sound of bullets echo around the metal encased room and it is only then I acknowledge Preston standing several feet away from me, leaning against the wall.

"Why do you always have to be the first to shoot and show off? Can't you ever give anyone else a chance? Like your trainee maybe?"

"And, why would I do that huh?" Zach challenges whilst glancing over to me, poison dripping from the look of contempt he gives to me.

I stay quiet in the shadows. I'm too mentally and physically drained to fight. I have only been going at this for a couple of hours, but the constant bickering and sniping has just been too much. I can handle it, but not when Zach is physically pushing me to my limits. My limbs are aching, head is pounding, and I just want to go home. They have overestimated me.

"Where's your trainee you hypocrite?"

"She's with Joe, he wants us all. But seriously man, she's your trainee for a reason."

"_She_ is slower than a dying snail. _She_ hesitates. _She_ can't balance herself; _she_ cannot do anything. _She_ has no foundation for me to work upon and look," he gestures over to me, "_she's_ given up!"

I don't even have the energy to argue. Preston looks over to me and rolls his eyes in exasperation. I give him a small smile in return, it's all I can manage.

I watch as Zach smirks and saunters over to the dummy to inspect the damage he has caused. Two to the heart and one of the head. All three are kill shots. A satisfied smirk plays upon his lips as he turns from the target.

"Look at this perfection. It's better than yours Pres!"

"Is it necessary for you to be a huge bag of douche at all times?" I quip up in frustration, finally having enough. Preston lets out a warm hearty laugh before he is stopped short by a glare from Zach. He focuses his green eyes on mine as he slowly saunters over to me. He leans over me, his height allowing him to tower above, and I jut out my chin in defiance so that our noses are so close to touching. He flashes his teeth, just like a shark would before preying on its innocent prey.

"Ouch," he whispers as his eyes follow the line of my jaw, "straight to the ego."

"It's not that hard to miss," I whisper back.

His green eyes glint mischievously and I take pride that I have at least attempted a hit at his ego. He's so obnoxious. I don't know who his parents are, but they made a huge mistake when raising him up. Zach's the type of boy who plays with your emotions so that he can get a kick out of it. He doesn't care about anybody, at least, that is the way he acts. I guess deep down there's a glimmer of hope, there always is with somebody no matter how vile he or she may be. But, with Zach, my god, that light is buried so deep beneath his fading conscience that if he doesn't stop being an emotionless cruel wreck, well, that light might just disappear. Why did I get stuck with him? Him of all people? I have had enough in my life. I have had enough miserable occurrences for at least one good thing to happen. To be honest, whilst punching the bag and dripping in sweat earlier, I warmed up to the idea of training to be an agent. I guess every young child dreams once of being a secret agent, saving the nation with a backdrop of explosions behind you. Those dreams never come true for the average kid, and I guess this is my chance to live it. Also, who wouldn't want to know how to shoot and gun and save the country? I might even get to meet the President. But, as much as I like the idea, the whole CIA thing is creeping me out. Today, I have been manhandled by this so-called organisation of protection. And I am stuck with this big-headed egotistical jerk who thinks that he is God's gift to the world. I meet his green eyes and mentally prepare myself for his comeback, because guys like Zach always have comebacks because they have an incessant need to put people down. He blows out his breath so that it fans in my face.

"You're feisty Blondie." He shoves the gun roughly into my chest, "now shut up and shoot."

* * *

"You are being briefed now. I know that you have just initiated your status as trainees, but we need this mission to go into the workings as soon as possible to minimise the danger in which our target is in."

I glance up at Joe to see his eyes raking across the four of us, searching us for any detail that we give up. I'm not ready for this. Looking around I see Bex seated next to Grant, and she is beaming. Bex was made for this; it's in her blood. Her parents are spies for god's sake! My parents are buried 6 feet underground. My mum was a kindergarten teacher and my dad was a doctor. My foster mum is a journalist and my foster dad is a project manager. No genes or influences there that will help me protect a target we don't even know the identity of.

"The Chameleon is a top-secret target who has fallen under our radar. She is the best pavement artist we have and yet she is being targeted: by the Circle of Cavan. All we need you to do is keep an eye out for any suspicious activity surrounding one individual. Check out the teachers, staff, and pupils, anyone who seems sceptical. We need the Chameleon. So get her."

"Do we not have any information on this woman?" Macey asks inquisitively.

"We?" I ask incredulously. "Macey, it is not we. It's them and us. It has been less than 24 hours since we have been kidnapped, drugged and held hostage by these so-called protectors of our state. You might be happy to work with these lunatics and think of yourself as one of them, but I'm sure as hell not."

"Thank God." I whirl my head around to face off the offending person who had muttered behind my back.

"You know what Newbie, bite me."

"Oh, you wish I would Blondie."

"Enough. Cammie, I appreciate and understand your reasons for your feelings of contempt, but please try to understand that we are on your side."

Right. Like hell you are.

"You will return to school in three days. The principal has been alerted to your absence, it is due to virus that is circulating the school. You will continue your training in the meantime. Everyday you will report here at 7 in the morning, and you will be dismissed at 6. At the end of the training, before you go back to school and start the mission, there will be a test to see if you are able to handle what challenges will be placed before you. Nothing to worry about though."

I look around and see the boys fist pumping. I'm guessing they will get a kick out of seeing us fail.

"To your parents, you will continue the image of an ordinary school day, we will stick to the timings and will aim to intercept all forms of communication between the school and your parents."

Ok. That's one thing Joe and the flipping CIA is doing right. I don't want John and Jane to worry about me, I don't live a day without thinking of myself as a burden to them, adding stress and anxiety onto that would just make me feel even worse than I occasionally do.

"When you arrive in school, you will keep on lookout. Gather information. Make friends. Snoop around. Agents, use your psychology training to help you discern people who are hiding secrets. Trainees," Joe hesitates, "make friends. We need you to be four extra pairs of eyes on the matter."

I scoff. That is all we are good for apparently.

"Remember, you are better than the Chameleon. She won't be that good, she hasn't been trained. She just has the potential and talent to be the best, and because she has good contacts and help, she has been able to stay under the radar. You can take her. You can, because you have the training. So do it. Find the Chameleon before the Circle of Cavan does."

Great, looks like he has finished. I raise my hand, "can I go home now?" I ask as politely as I can, because right now I'm aching everywhere and I just need to get out. That speech just reinforced my fears.

My feet hurt from bouncing up and down when boxing, skipping and just being on my feet all day. My head hurts from the lashings I receive from Zach, and the constant instructions being bounced around my head like a boomerang. I'm trying to remember everything because I know one day I will need all this information: like how to assemble a simple handgun, or which way to throw a punch. It's like a hyperactive child has ran through my brain with a crayon, painting and marking my brain with commands and instructions in a jumbled heap of words and numbers. I sigh. It's too much. We get the go ahead from Joe who nods his approval, and I rush out of the door. I don't bother waiting for the girls. I know, it's bad of me, but right now all I need is to curl up in my bed after taking a long hot shower. I'm sure the others did brilliantly in their training and have the natural talent that I just don't possess. And I should be happy for them and go to them and listen to how their day went, but right now I cannot bear to be put down now, to be shown how bad I am in comparison to their greatness. Exiting the grand room that serves as Joe's office I turn left and start making my way down the cold corridor. I duck my head so that I avoid the stares of people who question my place in this place.

I'm right with you people, what am I doing here?

* * *

**A/N: Wow. I am so sorry for the late update, but thank you so much for staying with me! Bit of a filler chapter, next one will be more interesting . Please review, tell me what you think about this new vulnerable side of Cammie! Reviews and PM's are welcome! **


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8 - Part 1**_

Cammie's POV

I walk into the bathroom and lock the door behind me with a resounding click. I undress myself, peeling off the layers of sweat-drenched work out clothes that stick to me like a second skin, thanks to the hours of straining workouts and exercises I have been forced to do by my most wonderful trainer. Looking up, I pull a face at my reflection in the mirror. My body sports an ugly geography of bruises, with the one on top of my right hip looking like a blue and yellow continent against my pale skin. That one was courtesy of Newbie, who decided to throw me against a steel wall barricade to mimic the force of a grenade exploding nearby. That was a fun exercise. Zach was laughing continuously at me for a good couple of hours later, which prompted thoughts of his death to run repeatedly in my brain like a broken record. I have several scratches on my face, almost like I have been in a maul with a tiger. One runs from my right eyebrow down to the curve of my jaw. Zach and I were sparring two days ago with knives and to make a point about my lack of ability to correctly disarm him, he drew a nice line on my face with his knife, like a child would with a crayon. I'm applying a daily salve Sean gave me to try and stop a scar forming. It would be a pretty impressive one, but one I would like not permanently on my face. Others come from accidents involving knives and explosions from C4's and grenades.

I dislocated my shoulder this morning in the end of the week training test. There was a set of monkey bars suspended over a man-made gorge that was constructed out of concrete blocks. In the gorge, there were sharp bits of glass and cement sticking up ominously, like the jaws of a shark ready to pounce on any unwary prey. This was troublesome for me as I have minimal upper body strength. I started out this week with limbs as weak and thin as stick; I could barely do five push-ups. There wasn't an inch of muscle on my arms and Zach had a blast chaining me to the gym so that I could build it up. This feat regarding monkey bars with dozens of rungs on it did not seem achievable in my eyes. Before I had even started, I had locked eyes with Zach, searching for some form of confidence that he could give to me. He knew of my weakness and so I could see the mirrored apprehension in his eyes. I was surprised to find no sign of contempt or humour in them. This would have been the opportune moment for him to take advantage and gloat over how badly I was to fail. However, he didn't. He just set his eyes on mine, and gave me a weak smile. His lips upturned slightly into a gently curve and gave me a small nod of encouragement. I was surprised. I didn't expect to see this encouraging and reassuring side of Zach. All of this week, he has been nothing but hard on me. We barely talked normally. He barked instructions and I returned with grunts and groans. During breaks, I spent time with the girls. Admittedly, it still was difficult being with them. They all had special natural talent that I simply didn't have and to hear them excel was slightly painful. I know that sounds rather selfish and egotistical of me, but I didn't want to be the one to slow these girls down. And it did wonders for my self-esteem. I heard tales of their trainers and how extraordinary they were, how incredibly talented and encouraging they were. I just nod and listen, and try to focus on the things I had learnt with Zach. There are so many things I have to retain in my brain, techniques that will hopefully save my life one day. Fingers crossed.

We climbed the ladder, Zach and I, towards to the platform just before the start of the monkey bars. I hauled myself up and glanced warily at the metal rungs. "I can't do this," I muttered to myself, as I crouched on the small platform. Zach placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed ever so gently.

"Yes, you can. Stand up." I obeyed, and Zach wrapped his hands around my hips from behind. I could feel his warmth radiating from his hands. Over the past week, I revelled in how he could be so hot – temperature wise, his body was constantly running at a temperature just below a fever, and yet he never felt it. It's one of the things I have noticed about him when training.

Without warning, he hoisted me up so that I could grab onto the steel bars. They felt like ice in my palms, such a stark contrast to the warmth I had felt from Zach moments earlier. Before letting go of me, he gave me a quick pat on my upper thigh. I looked down at him angrily, glaring daggers, and watched him throw me his signature smirk and wink combo as he climbed down the ladder and out of my sight. I could feel the burn in my arms already as I stayed there suspended. I could feel my fingers start to slip from the sweat as I dangled 15 feet in the air, and I desperately clung onto the bar, hoping to find some semblance of a grip. I could hear shouts of encouragement from the mess of people below, but my mind only focused on one voice yelling out.

"Move Blondie!"

Following the command of my trainer, I let go of the primary rung with my left hand and swung forwards, using the momentum of my body to propel me towards the second bar. But instead of my hand making contact with the bar, it grasped thin air, jerking me downwards so that I found nothing to support me. With a cry I felt my shoulder spasm with pain as my arm popped out of my joint due to the force of my body and gravity hanging from one point. Searing pain flew down my arm from my shoulder as if I had been stroked with a white-hot poker. Shouts from below me reverberated to were I was hanging but the sensation was becoming too much and I could see in my vision black spots dancing in front of me. They were joining up so that more and more parts of my vision became blocked, but I was fighting it. _Just hold on, Cammie. Just a little longer and you can get help._ My vision was getting dizzy, and everything I saw started to move, even the walls, which came in closer and closer. I could hear Zach below me, shouting. I looked over to where his voice was coming from and saw his mop of brown tangled hair bobbing. I don't know why, but that gave me extra strength to hang on. And it gave me hope. I smiled faintly as I saw it a few metres from me, coming steadily towards me. But so were the black spots. I don't know which ones got to me first.

* * *

Turns out, Zach got to me first. This is the second time he has saved my life in the space of a week. I'm worried it will become a habit. I don't like to be indebted to someone; it makes me feel tethered to them. Since I performed mediocre in the tests before the monkey bar fiasco, I was seen fit to accomplish whatever task Joe has sent out in front of us. I don't remember anything that conspired after my blackout. I'm glad I don't. Many praised me for my bravery, and my ability to hang on for as long as I did considering my injury. Many thought I wouldn't have been able to hold out. Neither did I.

A sharp resounding knock comes from the door to the bathroom.

"One second," I call out. Leaving my clothes in a stinking pile on the floor, I gather up my pyjamas. I am to stay in the Pentagon tonight for my own safety so that I don't injure myself further. This is no problem; John and Jane aren't back for another week. I pull on my shorts without any difficulty only using one arm, however my loose top is proving to be challenging. Looking at my dishevelled hair in the mirror, and the bags under my eyes, I let out a small sigh at my appearance before turning towards the door. I open the door, fully expecting Bex or one of the girls saying goodbye before they made their way home.

"Hey, Bex, can you help me with my top?"

"Of course Blondie, but wouldn't you rather be naked with me?" He raises an eyebrow at my attire, but right now, I couldn't care less if he sees me in shorts and a sports bra. Zach says nothing as I breeze past him into the bedroom, where I unceremoniously dump the dirty clothes into a plastic bag, grimacing as the stench of sweat and the tang of blood hits my nose.

"Piss off." I mutter as I turn away from him to gather the clothes on the floor.

"I thought you needed help."

I roll my eyes and silently curse my bad luck. I turn around so that I face Zach once more and I chuck my top at him.

"Fine. Help me put this on." Zach catches the top deftly in his hands without breaking his eye contact with me. He stalks forward to where I am standing and pulls the top over my head so that both my arms are trapped by my side.

"Seriously?" I whine as I struggle to lift my good-working arm into the sleeve, "you're no help at all."

A small chuckle escapes Zach's lips as he slips his hands under my top. The skin he comes into contact with tingles with small sparks of electricity as he travels his way up to my useless arm. With the smallest pressure, he clutches my hand in his warmth and gently pushes upwards so that I can push my arm through the sleeve. This is all done in silence, not a word spoken, but as my pulls his hand down my top he deliberately brushes all the way down from my stomach to my waist. I gasp at the sensation, and at my small intake of breath, his eyes shoot downwards to meet mine. Green on blue. But his eyes are so dark now, maybe it's the lighting, but now they look dark brown. It's startling. And it makes my heart beat all the more faster. I groan internally at the feeling of butterflies settling in my stomach, please. Don't tell me this is happening. This is hard enough for me as it is, I do not need to add heartbreak into the huge list of troubles I will have to experience for the next year or so. Zach will always be made up of those smirks and jests; he is the ultimate playboy. And just like the deer falls for the lion, I have fallen for him. Damn. My eyes gaze down his jawline, following that smooth hard cut line until I meet his lips. Red and full; like they were made for kissing. I'm sure many of his girls have told him that before. At that thought I step back cautiously, I needed to put some distance between us, and immediately I feel the loss of his heat.

"You better go," I murmur as I turn away from him and make my way over to my single bed. I grab a book from the bedside drawer and open it, burying my face among the pages, hoping to get the message across: he needs to go. Peeking up over the pages I watch as Zach looks to the floor and rubs a hand through his already messy hair. I suddenly feel the urge to run over there and smooth it out myself, but I know I can't and I know I won't. I will not be one of those girls. One of his girls.

"Fine," he grunts out. "Goodnight."

He stalks over to the door, jerking it open and stepping through, leaving me in silence. I breathe out a sigh of relief, dropping the now forgotten book beside me on the bed so that I can lower my head into my hands. Trust me to develop feelings for the biggest asshat in history. Well, at least I know its only surface deep, Newbie's personality is so repulsive, I couldn't possible form any sort of attachment to a person like that. It's just his looks that make his so appealing. Yet, why do I feel like there's a niggling sense at the back of my head telling me that I am only lying to myself?

Just then, the door opens with a creak, and the familiar mop of brown hair pops through the door. "Hey, Blondie?" I grunt in response. "Cute pyjamas by the way." The sarcasm was so thick in his voice, I narrow my eyes in clear frustration and annoyance. With a parting smirk gracing his lips he ducks out of the door quickly, closing it behind him just a second before my book slams into the door, where his head had been just a moment before. With a sigh of defeat, and Zach's laughter from behind the door, I collapse onto the bed exhausted and in slight pain, ready for the mission to begin the next day.

* * *

**A/N: Not too happy with this chapter, but tell me what you think! Just come back from a wonderful holiday so I am sorry for the long wait. Tell me what you think though, reviews are love after all :) **


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9 - Part 2**_

Zach's POV

"Rise and shine, get up Blondie!"

I poke Cammie on the shoulder as that the only visible part of her body that isn't covered by the duvet or her mane of hair. I get no response though and I grunt in annoyance. Remembering how Ace got me up a couple of days ago, I grab the edges of the duvet from under her arms and yank it away so that it lands in a crumpled heap on the floor beside me. Cammie immediately rolls over and curls up into a little ball, wrapping her good arm around her knees, leaving her bad arm splayed out in front of her. I can see her face now and it stuns me a little. I have never seen Cammie look so peaceful, so relaxed. Her face is all smooth, not a crease in it, so unlike the times I have seen her where her face is always scrunched up in frustration or annoyance. Her golden hair frames her face so perfectly, except for this one stray curl, which falls across her face over her mouth. It moves up and down with every breath she takes, until I wrap it around my finger ever so gently so that it moves back to its proper place behind her ear. Brushing the soft, pale skin of her cheek just reminds me of last night's events, where I stupidly took things to far with my touch. Dammit, I just wanted to pull her to me and crush her into a hug, to say I am sorry for being such a jerk, and I'm sorry I failed her in training and I'm sorry she's hurt.

God, I'm sorry for a lot of things.

I don't know, but something changed when I saw her unconscious in my arms for the second time in a week. The first time, I was too enraged to even comprehend how she moulded so perfectly in my arms, how delicate she is under the hard shell she projects to protect herself. The second time, after I had caught her in my arms and cradled her head to my chest, I was able to properly see her. Her arm was all purple and bruised and bent at a weird angle, and all I could see were the injuries she had sustained whilst training with me. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scratch that runs down the entire left side of her face. I gave her that, deliberately, and looking at it now made me sick.

"Zach?" Cammie's voice sounds groggy with sleep.

"Yeah, I'm your wake-up call Blondie."

She responds with a grunt, and brings her knees closer to her chest.

"Let's be honest, my face is a pretty good sight first thing in the morning. Be thankful."

"Be thankful my ass," she replies and tucks her face deeper into the cradle her arm and chest creates. I let out a small chuckle, not at the statement but at the use of the expletive so early in the morning.

"Get up Blondie," I urge as I tug at her arm so that I can see her face. "Joe needs us, he has a lead on the Chameleon." She moans in return and murmurs something unintelligible.

I sigh, "you know what, I'll give you a kiss, maybe that will wake you up." I lean forwards slowly, a grin splitting my face open as I watch her unresponsive. As I get close to her face I can make out the small specks of brown on her cheeks: her invisible freckles. They puncture the pale canvas of her skin, but look so in place underneath her light brown eyelashes. Even though I threatened a kiss, I don't want to go through with it. I don't know why, normally I would be ready to jump at this opportunity. Free kiss with a girl, sure, I'm up for it. But... not Cammie. She's too good, too different. So instead, I blow out my breath onto her lips and move slowly horizontally so that my lips graze the apple of her cheek. Her eyes flicker open, revealing the deep dark blue that's so different from the normal pale blue of her eyes. Her eyelashes flutter frantically as her eyes adjust to the light of the morning.

"Zach? What the hell are you doing here?"

I roll my eyes, "wow Blondie, you sure are dumb when you're sleepy." I watch as her forehead crinkles into a frown, and I am overcome with a sudden urge to smooth out those creases. I cross my arms to stop them from wandering in forbidden places.

"Joe has a lead. Ex-FBI who apparently had a hand in looking after the subject as a case." At this, Cammie bolts upright and her face lights up ever so slightly.

"Great, let's go. Why didn't you tell me that before?" She jumps out of bed, being careful of her injured arm, and rushes into the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the bed bemused by the sudden enthusiasm. I stand up to make my leave, but her head pops round the bathroom door, her blonde tendrils of hair curling round her pale face.

"Stay where you are Newbie, I need your help getting dressed. And please, for the love of God, don't make it into a sexual innuendo or something like that please. It's too early in the morning for that."

My lips involuntarily lift up in a sort of smile and halt my steps as I raise my arms in the worldwide sign of surrender. A couple of minutes later, Blondie emerges in black skinny jeans wearing only her bright orange neon sports bra, showing off her tanned toned stomach and her long arms. My breath escapes for a second at the sight of so much of her skin on show before letting out a small whistle of appreciation.

"Damn, Blondie, is it my birthday?" I mean, I know I saw her like this yesterday night, but in the daylight streaming through the window, I can just further appreciate the smooth lines and planes that make her. Helping her put on her top last night, was strangely intimate. And Cammie, shutting me down and full on ignoring me was very frustrating. I almost wanted that extra contact with her, like my body was pulling me to her in a magnetic sense. So I leant in and observed as her eyes roved over my face, absorbing the details and more than once glancing down to my lips, her intentions clear. And when I jutted my face out a little in encouragement, she immediately backed off, breaking the connection, and I can't remember whether I thought it was for the best or for the worst. Today, I keep my mind blank as I help her into her white tee, which she promptly throws a leather jacket over.

"Where did you get the leather from?" I quip as she zips up her boots.

"Joe had some clothes delivered to me. You guys don't have personal shoppers at the Pentagon right? Because these are pretty fashionable and all in my size." I shake my head as I don't know the answer to that, and smile at her enthusiasm as she jumps up, clapping her hands in excitement. The heels on her boots make her only slightly taller, but she is still just under a foot shorter than I.

"Ready Blondie? First interrogation, you and me, let's go."

When we step outside of the Pentagon, I carefully watch Blondie's reaction. She obviously expected one of those town cars belonging to the CIA directors waiting for us, but in its place sits an impossibly sleek car. Her breath hitches for a moment, just like mine did when I first laid eyes on this beauty. I had honestly considered the possibility that I had died and gone to heaven.

"It's a – "

"Is that an Aston Martin One-77?" She breathes out, unable to tear her eyes off the car. My eyebrows rise in shock as I stare at her.

"You could tell the exact make and model from here?" I ask pleasantly surprised. She never fails to surprise me.

"Are you kidding me?" she retorts, finally tearing her gaze away from the car to glance at me quickly, before returning immediately to the car. Wow, I can't even hold her concentration on me for more than a second.

"0 to 60 in 3.7 seconds and a 750 horsepower engine, it can go more than 200mph. I've never seen an Aston Martin before but I'd know the car anywhere."

My face splits open at her pure unbridled joy, "well, she needs some air, wanna go for a spin?"

She whips her head to the side to stare wide eyed at me. "You want me to get in that car? I am going to be riding in that car?" I give a small chuckle, before unlocking the doors with a small flourish and bowing low and opening the passenger door for her to get in. She walks forward as in a daze, and before climbing in she flashes me a genuine smile, which I return. It was nice.

On the drive to the safe location, I fill Blondie in with the information Joe has provided us with. Obviously, as soon we were sent on the trail for the Chameleon, the FBI, CIA and all other departments under the jurisdiction of the DoD were instructed to hand over any information about or pertaining to the disappearance of a baby girl, possibly taking into the care of DoD agents. The FBI sent us on the trail of a certain Josh Abrams, a former FBI agent who shadowed the girl as a baby, between the ages of 2 months to 4 years. Joe instructed me to get Cammie ready for her first interrogation, to 'break her in' so to speak. No other information was given to us about Mr Abrams, other than the address of his most recent safe house.

We take the highway out of the city, into the surrounding suburbs, and continue out until the glass skyscrapers give way to plains filled with grass. I catch Cammie more than once gazing out of the car window, her hair flowing in the breeze, wafting the scent of her strawberry shampoo aroma around in the car. It is a nice day outside, the sun is high in the sky, and it reflects in her golden hair, bringing out the lighter blonde strands. The journey out is filled with the mindless tunes from a local radio station, and apart from the information I shared with her earlier; there is no further chat. I am slightly thankful for this. It's pleasant to just drive, without filling the space with useless small talk that just complicates the already complicated relationship between Cammie and I. I don't even know what our relationship is. It is strained, and I know why. Probably because the only relationship I ever have with girls are usually the small conversations held in a noisy bustling club before I take them back to my place for some time between the sheets. With Cammie, I have to be strictly professional. However, I am noticing her little beauties, the quirks that make her _her. _I'm enjoying our sarcastic arguments, the insults thrown at each other that sort of sound endearing now. It's unnerving. I don't like it. Half an hour later, after my mind replaying the events from last night and that morning over and over again, I pull up to a large modern house situated on a side-road. Resting my hands on the steering wheel, I look over at Cammie, and see her blue eyes locked on mine.

"So, what's the drill Newbie?" I push open the car door.

"Follow me Blondie."

Cammie's POV

I follow Zach out of the car. I still can't believe I drove in an Aston Martin One-77. Those are the cars of James Bonds, the super spies, the rich and famous. It is elegant, sleek, stunning, the list could go on and on. I grew up adoring the gorgeousness that entwines to form that wondrous machine. I'm stunned that Zach had access to one, let alone drive one. I could see the surprise registering on his face when he realised I had recognised the car. I grew up on car magazines and old Bond films with John. It goes to say I was brought up as a tomboy: cars, films, sports and food were the things John and I bonded over as a child. So of course, I would recognise the holy grail of cars.

We walk together up the stairs leading to the front door of the dilapidated looking house. I focus on my feet; I don't particularly want my clumsiness to come into play in front of my target and in front of Zach. Stairs and I have a love-hate relationship. Without sparing a glance behind at me, Zach raps a sharp two knocks on the door, knocking the peeling grey paint onto the floor. I'm surprised he didn't knock the whole place down with his force.

He turns around to me and I am not surprised to see his previous playful attitude tucked behind this new cold exterior. Long gone is the playboy, this is the agent. "Stick to me. Follow my lead. Don't mess up. Don't embarrass me." I can't help thinking of a Nazi guard instructing me into Auschwitz.

I raise my eyebrow at him, "seriously? You are doing this now? Right before we go into one of the safe houses of an ex-FBI agent. Wow, way to make a girl more nervous."

Before he can respond the door opens a crack, a chain locking it from opening further.

"I didn't order Chinese," a husky voice comes from behind the door. Inside, it is completely pitch black, so I cannot match a face to the disembodied voice. Confusion clouds my brain, but as I open my mouth, Zach's hand clamps down, preventing any noise from escaping. I had a desperate urge to stick out my tongue and just give him a slice of payback.

"Your yuk sung is here ready for you, sir." He replies coolly and calmly. Ah, I see. Secret code. Clever FBI. The door closes, and a few seconds later it opens ominously.

"Come in agent."

Zach releases my mouth with a smirk thrown in my direction. Ugh, cocky bastard. As we step into the threshold, the whole place is illuminated with light, showing a modern looking house that does not match the shady looking exterior that portrays a house about to collapse under its own weight. In the large hallway just beyond the threshold, an aging man leans against the banister, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Zachary Goode. Nice of you to make the trip out. Do you have my Chinese?"

Zach smiles, "Joshua Abrams, thanks for having us. By the way, yuk sung? Yuk sung is gross"

"So is your face," escapes me before I can stop myself.

"Cameron Morgan, your wit is delightful."

I turn my head towards the ex Fed and shoot him a small smile of thanks. In the corner of my eye I can see Zach turning away, evidently trying not to snicker as he walks into the living after Josh, leaving me stood alone in the entrance hall feeling like a total fool. The living room is massive and open double doors show me a stainless steel kitchen. The windows that look boarded from the outside are now wide and open, shedding light into the roomy space. Everything from the massive widescreen television to the large and luxurious sofas screams of wealth and importance. That's it; I'm joining the FBI and retiring as soon as possible.

I quickly walk so that I fall into step alongside Newbie as we walk into the large spacious living room.

Josh gestures to the sofas and chairs, "please, take a seat. I have a feeling we are going to be here a while."

I look over to Zach for confirmation. He nods. "On behalf of the CIA, we would like to thank you for your time here Mr Abrams," Zach starts, but is cut off by Josh raising his hand.

"Please Zachary, Mr Abrams was my father. Call me Josh."

"Well, call me Zach."

I raise my hand up. "Call me Cammie," I quip in, but quickly simmer down after receiving a glare from Zach before he turns back to Josh.

"So Josh, can you transfer your intel please?" I study Josh, the way his eyebrows furrow in concentration, the way he intakes a large breath before launching into his story. He's a middle aged man, around his late forties maybe, however years of being in the field and experiencing trauma and distress have painted wrinkles and age onto his face. A pair of thick black-framed glasses sits on top of his hooked nose, and his black hair is tinged with grey. His voice is husky, but mellow, like golden honeycomb crumbling on a hot summer's day. What I would give for some honeycomb and a glass of milk right now.

"The Chameleon? I gather that is what you call her now. She was called subject Charlie Mike, because the only thing that was found on her the normal wristband issued by the hospital to new-borns with the initials _C.M_ written on it. She is the supposed offspring of two DoD agents, but the department is unknown. She was taken into care from the hospital after her parents ditched her in her incubator. She was two days old."

I can't help feeling sorry for the poor girl, how horrible it must be to grow up knowing that your parents deliberately left you, probably choosing career over their own flesh and blood. I couldn't imagine growing up without them knowing that you were unwanted. At least I know my parents loved me and wanted me. It makes their deaths a little easier to bear I guess.

"So, when was this? When was she born?"

"23rd of December 1997." Oh shit. I gasp in surprise slightly at the mention of my birthday, catching the attention of Zach who raises a questioning eyebrow at me. "It's not everyday you learn that you have the same birthday as a top-secret agent/fugitive/target," I clarify before nodding at Josh for him to continue.

"So, you're saying that we aren't looking for a middle aged woman as previously suspected? We're looking for a teenager at Gallagher Academy? A student?" Zach confirms, the surprise and slight frustration not hidden in his voice.

Josh nods his head. It's interesting to know that the FBI and CIA have very limited contact or conversation, because evidently if they did, this information would have been passed straight on. I had a small glimpse of the rivalry between the two agencies, and its ferocious. Sometimes missions would be completely compromised due to the lack of communication between the two. It's frankly stupid in my opinion; they are both bowling for the same team! But Zach and the other boys treat it as the Bible; everyone in the agency knows to respect the boundaries and to treat the rest of the DoD as children in comparison to the great wealth and intelligence of the CIA.

"She was taken into care and was pinged around several agents for three years. She needed to be kept in care; the daughter of two DoD is quite rare considering the lifestyle required from the parents, and she undoubtedly would've have inherited her parent's skills. She is also of great interest to the terrorist group the Circle of Cavan. She is necessary part of their group because she has the potential to be the best agent we have, she can be groomed to perfection and to be an excellent weapon. Charlie Mike is an orphan, with talents and gifts, so who better to be used in their plans? That is why she was immediately taken into our care, and was under protection, until the 26th June 2000, when she was taken from the house of an operative by supposedly a team of four assailants. The operative was killed trying to protect the child. She has never been found since. No sightings, no reportings. Nothing. According to the FBI, she is dead. I don't know why you CIA are bothering with her. She is a lost cause."

I can't help but feel slight fury towards the FBI. How could they give up on the girl, and allow her to be taken from their care to be trained as a weapon without caring? To write her off as dead and just give up in abysmal. I can tell that Zach thinks along the same lines as me as I can feel all his muscles tense as he sits beside me. I give him a small nudge with my elbow to reassure him. If anything, it reassures me that the CIA are nothing like them, and aren't just heartless. I can tell we are done here.

Zach sighs ever so slightly before standing up, and I follow his lead silently. He extends his hand in thanks towards Josh who takes it, and I do the same. As I grasp his hand, I notice a luminous red dot sitting above his left breast. I tilt my head in confusion, but at that moment I feel something whizz by my ear, causing a small distortion of air.

You know how some people claims that things go in slow motion sometimes, maybe during accidents or moments where great care is needed? Well, this was one of those moment. I turn to my left, thinking it an insect or something, but then feel Josh's grip on my hand loosen slightly. I turn back towards the FBI agent. But instead of him standing there, Zach is behind him, cradling his body and taking his weight as he lowers Josh to the floor ever so slowly. My eyes zone onto the blood flowing out of a bullet wound in Josh's chest, and I suppress a small scream of shock.

Overhead, the sounds of an approaching helicopter bring my out of a stupor, and I can suddenly feel the adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I don't know what to do with my hands, and so I plaster them to my side otherwise they would be waving around frantically. I rush over to Zach and watch him as he whispers curses after checking the pulse of Josh.

"He's gone, and we need to go."

* * *

**A/N: Cliffhanger! Well, sort of. Things are about to get interesting. Many of you are asking who the Chameleon is, and hopefully this chapter should clear things up a little bit for you. Please comment and review, I would love to know what you think of this chapter, and also, could you let me know what you think about the chapter lengths? Are they too short, too long? Thanks for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10 - Part 3**_

Cammie's POV

Without another word, he grabs my hand and I try not to cringe at the feeling of the warm blood touching my skin. Instead, I squeeze back and follow his lead as he runs through the kitchen towards the back door. I let go and start to look for a key, opening drawers, but Zach soon stops me.

"No time," he says, and takes a few paces back from the door and braces himself as if he means to break down the door himself using only his force.

"No, Zach don't be stupid. Let me find a key." We can't risk injuries at this time whilst being chased down by people who killed an ex-FBI agent. I turn my back towards him rummaging through drawers, trying to avoid looking at the blood staining the palms of my hands. It's starting to congeal now, and the creases in my palms are now stained a deep maroon, the scent of iron filling my head. Before I can even start to feel slightly faint, I am ripped out of the spinning world as my hand wraps around the cold hard metal of a key that I pull out frantically.

"Cammie," Zach grunts out and I spin round to see him standing outside, the door previously in our way, now ripped off its hinges and lying broken in large shards on the floor.

"You idiot!" I exclaim in frustration as I throw the key in his direction with a little more force than necessary. It bounces off his chest and lies on the floor forgotten. I rush over to him and immediately put my hands on his shoulders and run them down the length of his arms. He holds himself awkwardly, in a way so that his shoulder is pulled up and tight. I focus on that shoulder and gently apply pressure, to which he winces and sucks in a short breath.

"You bloody idiot!" I stage whisper, "what part of don't be stupid do you not understand?" Zach flashes a quick grin even though I can tell through his eyes that he is in immense pain. "

You stupid, stupid idiot! How the hell are we meant to fight the bad guys if you are fricking injured? Huh? My ninja moves are below par right now, and I'm babbling, but please can we just get out of here now?" I can feel and hear my blood pounding in my head and that along with the constant beat of helicopter blades clouds my senses. It hits me. Josh is dead. An innocent, well, he was part of the FBI, innocence is an attribute rarely found in FBI agents, clearly demonstrated by the utter disregard they have for the Chameleon's life. We went to him for help, and now he is dead. He was someone's son, a nephew, and a grandson. And now all I can think of is that red dot from the sniper, and his lifeless eyes staring at me whilst his hand fell out of my grip. Oh god. Newbie grasps my hand, and I focus on his calloused hand surrounding mine.

I choke back a small sob as Zach immediately jerks me forward. The movement is so sudden I nearly trip over my feet. But he doesn't stop, and pulls me along roughly with sharp tugs as he navigates the neatly kept garden at the back of the large house. Taking in a shuddering breath I quicken my pace so that I am sprinting beside him and not behind him. I focus ob channelling my shock into anger and fury. Sad makes me confused, confused makes me furious, furious makes me frustrated. Fury at whoever is trying to kill us: fury for the Chameleon. I need to keep strong for Zach and not be a liability at this moment. God forbid I be the one to get us killed. I slowly tug my hand from his, to show him that I can be strong. He doesn't turn to me; his eyes are scanning for escape routes, for entrances and hiding places. Newbie reaches the gate first; my ankle boots are not appropriate footwear to have whilst running from people who have no qualms about killing FBI agents. Zach yanks it open, breaking it from its hinges with his raw strength. I try not to be surprised. He's an agent for god's sake. It must be in the training course. I can imagine it: Lesson 23: rip doors from hinges and barrel into them so hard that you break right on through them.

"Go. Now. Left." His monosyllabic commands wrench me out of my imagination, as I turn left down the road. I try to focus on my breathing, inhale, exhale, inhale, and exhale. I do not need a stitch right now. Ok Cams. You are in a race. 400m. Just down the road. Stupid Tina Walker is first, but only by a small margin, and all you have to do it keep running. Keep running so that when you reach her you can subtly slip out a foot and trip that bitch up and win. Just keep running. I hear the pounding of footsteps behind me, and soon enough Zach is beside me, his leather jacket flapping in the wind as he pumps his arms. I can't help but notice how his breathing is half as laboured as mine. I open my mouth to comment, but I can't speak. It is like all the air has been drawn out of me and now my mouth is parched. I have to stop. My lungs and limbs are burning. Jesus, I should have taken Sean's workout tip to heart.

"Stop." Zach skids to a halt and I slowly follow, folding myself in two to get the much-needed oxygen I crave. Breathing in the cool air I watch as Zach punches the window of a car parked on the road. It must be an old car as there is no loud obnoxious alarm ringing down the silent street. The only sounds I can hear are the tinkling of glass shards hitting the floor and the crunching of them under my feet. It is eerily silent, but I know that this is the calm before the storm. I mean, this is what always happens in the movies right?

"You drive, I shoot. Understand?" I stand up fully and regard Zach who runs to the other side of the car and yanks open the door. Without a second of doubt I jump into the car and my feet immediately find the pedals. He's going to jumpstart the car. I can tell this before he leans over the console with his arms outstretched, ripping out the panel concealing the red, green and blue wires we required. He rests his head in my lap as Newbie fiddles with the electrics. I can't see what he is doing; the big mop of brown copped flecked head of hair conceals everything. After a few curses and expletives, the car roars to life. It's only now that I realise what type of car I will be driving.

"A Prius?" I question disbelievingly, by my eyes are not deceiving me when I take in the silver letters spelled out on the steering wheel.

"Drive Blondie," Zach replies, as he pulls out his AF1 Pistol from his leather jacket. I put the car into gear as I drive out of the parking space.

"A fucking Prius Zach! Of all the cars to break into, you break into this old machine?" Before Zach can respond a black SUV pulls round the corner and starts to accelerate closer to us. "Shit. Zach!" I push hard on the accelerator, my foot reaching as far as it can to floor the pedal.

"Cammie." His voice is calm and quiet compared to the racket made by the engine at the speed I have forced it to go to. "Cammie," he repeats, placing a hand on my knee to stop it from jiggling up and down. It's a nervous tick of mine. "We'll be ok, all you need to do is keep calm, keep your foot on the accelerator. I'll stop them."

"You'll stop them? I shout incredulously and wince at the shrill edge of hysteria in my voice that is fuelled by panic. "How? How on earth are you going to stop them. "You're in a goddamn Prius. And not a fancy James Bond with missiles in the bloody headlight, ok? This car is about as deadly as an eighty five year old grandmother who couldn't kill a fly if you gave her a bazooka to shoot it with."

Zach supresses a chuckle whilst he stares at me nonplussed at my distress. He doesn't even turn his head to look at the approaching car in the wing mirrors. It's like he isn't fazed by it at all. Whereas I am staring straight ahead on the road, making sure I don't kill any unsuspecting pedestrians who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Knowing me, I would probably stare at myself too; my facial expressions would probably be as deranged as my voice. I try to breath in, to ease the death clench I have on the steering wheel, but my foot stays tense on the accelerator. Without a sound, Zach turns around and begins to lower the passenger window by rotating the handle on the door. God, this car is ancient.

"Oh, of course," I mutter to myself. "Of course," I say again a little louder, "you're going outside to stop them. How stupid and goddamn sane of me, we're only going eighty down this death road!"

Zach twists around in his seat to face me, continuing to wind down the window till is falls all the way down into the door. The wind whips into the car; freeing my hair out of the loose ponytail I had previously thrown it in. This stresses my out more as strands of blonde hair in my face now suddenly throw my vision of the road. "I've done faster Blondie, there's no need to worry about me."

"I'm not worrying about you, I'm worrying about me and what I'll do if you fall off the roof and break every goddamn hated bone in your body!" I scream this now, the wind making it hard for me to hear my thoughts and Zach. But of course, again, he has done this before. He has probably done this in twelve inches of snow whilst driving downhill.

"Just keep your eyes on the road ok? I'm just going to go on the roof and check out what they are doing. Keep her steady for me." I nod and let the information sink in. Keep her steady. I watch Zach out of the corner of me eye, his legs wriggling as he propels his upper body out of the window so that he is able to grip onto the roof of the car with his forearms. Thank god there isn't any traffic on this road, I don't think my nerves could handle that. Seconds later, I can no longer see Zach, but I can hear him making dull sounds on the ceiling on top of me.

"Ok Cams, keep her steady, keep her steady." A loud bang launches me out of my little concentration bubble, and this is followed by the sound of machine gun fire.

"Fuck!" I scream as I think of Zach's corpse on top of the car, his body riddled with bullets. My hands involuntarily jerk leading the car to swerve to the left uncontrollably. I keep on screaming as I fight to gain control of the car, but I can't. She just won't turn right. Fucking Prius, old ancient grandma car. Of course he would bloody choose to break into this bloody machine. My hands strain as I yank desperately on the steering wheel, now that the metal barrier separating the road from the adjacent fields is rapidly approaching me. I give the wheel once last frantic tug but I'm suddenly thrown back into the seat violently, my neck experiencing whiplash as shards of glass rain down on me from the shattered windscreen. I have a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and my vision is slowly clouding over. Oh god no, I think. Please, no. I need to stay awake. I need to fight. But the black fuzz at the edges of my eyesight start to race inwards, blanking out more of my sight, leaving me helpless. My hands start to fumble around for the seatbelt, but it's zapping my energy. "Awake," I grunt out as I fight my weariness.

"Awake."

"Zach."

"Help."

"Zach."

* * *

"Cameron Ann Morgan."

I hear the sound of my name. And then I register a sharp stinging sensation on my cheek, blood rushing to its surface.

"No!" I hear a small soft protest in the background, a voice that sounds slightly recognisable. "Don't touch her," It speaks again, but then I feel the sting on my other cheek, and my head is thrown back forcefully. It sort of hurts now. I strain to open my eyelids; it feels like lead weights have been attached to them. As every second goes by, a sliver of what is before me is revealed. I first see grass. Vibrant green grass. It reminds me of eyes, emerald shining eyes. I wonder whom they belong to. I next see a pair of boots standing inches away from my face. I instantly jerk my head backwards away from them, but I'm rewarded with a sharp pain at the back of my skull.

"Oh no honey, don't do that. You've hit your head hard there." The endearment is strangely menacing. I don't like it. Sliver by sliver the world is shown to me. And dammit, I'm in a bad place. I'm lying on the ground face first, and standing next to me is a man dressed in all black combat gear, with a very frightening AK-47 lying comfortably in his hands. I'm surrounded by a dozen of these identical men. All holding AK-47's, except for these three guys who are holding back a familiar face.

"Zach," I croak out, cringing at the sound of my own voice.

"Blondie!" he shouts back, with relief evident in his voice. Well, at least he's happy I'm still alive. It's when I hear Zach's pained moan that I'm tugged out of my dazed state.

"Hit him again, she seems to respond to it." At the dry command, I hear Zach let out a strangled cry, and I can feel every cell in my body respond to that sad sound. I lift my head quickly, ignoring the flashes of pain darting at the back of my skull, and place my hands firmly on the grass to lift myself up onto my knees.

"Cameron Ann Morgan." The man in black asks me.

"Yes," I reply simply. I cannot make out any features of the man, he is completely swathed in black, black tactical glasses cover his eyes and his hands are clothed in black thick gloves.

"Cameron," he drawls out again, "honey."

I cringe at the use of that word. It sounds possessive. I look to my left and I can see Zach held back by three black men. He's thrashing about viciously, but three against one makes his odds weak. I remember his injured shoulder, and the punches to his gut must be aching. But when his eyes lock onto mine, I still receive a sense of relief from him. This confuses me.

"Cameron." The man speaks again, drawing out my name and letting the vowels roll around his tongue like a sport announcer would do when announcing a name.

"Very intriguing. It's wonderful to meet you again after all these years."

"What?" I stutter out. I haven't seen this man anywhere before, I would recognise his voice: thick, gravelly, like someone had starved him of water for decades.

"It's wonderful to be reunited now."

"I don't know what you are on about sir, but I don't know you."

"You wouldn't do dear, it's been many years. And my, you have gotten so wonderful beautiful in those years." The man leans down and with a glove donned hand sweeps his large hand across my jaw tenderly. My immediate reaction is to lurch away, but before I can escape his grasp he grasps my chin roughly and jerks me into place making me squint in pain as I feel his fingertips leave bruises.

"Tut, tut, Cameron. Let me look at you." I comply, looking up and steeling my eyes. I watch myself in the reflection of his black tactical goggles and mentally appraise my face. The areas around his fingers on my chin are turning a slight shade of pink, and I have several small abrasions around my face that have picked up dirt, the blood and dirt mixing to create a grimy dark maroon.

"Beautiful," he whispers, his lips pulling back to reveal perfect white teeth, unmarked and unblemished. Breaking his gaze, he turns to one of the other guards and gives a small imperceptible nod. Without a word spoken, the man approaches, his gun knocking against his body menacingly. Slowly, he reaches into a pocket, hidden under a multitude of black fabric, and pulls out a syringe, one with a small needle and filled with ominous clear and colourless liquid. Oh shit. No. This is like Agent Ward all over again. At the sight of the injecting vessel I start thrashing around, but not before strong arms are wrapped around my midriff, locking me in place and preventing any harm coming from my wild hits.

"No, no, no," I repeat softly as I shrink away from the men who are now conversing quietly under their voices, and I watch the syringe move from one man to the other.

"Zach!" I yell, as they approach, no more than fifteen feet away. I hear no response.

But when I throw my panicked glance over to him, I catch him just as he throws his head back into the nose of one of his captor's and it gives a sickening crunch as bone crushes under bone. His hands are still behind his back, and his face in wrought with concentration as the man previously holding him stumbles back with a bloody nose. Zach jumps up, bringing his legs to his chest so that he can swing his linked hands in front of him. He lands on the first man's back, forcing him to let out a short scream. It is cut short when a belt swings around and his mouth is jammed with leather. Zach spins on one hell and gives the second man a roundhouse kick to the chest, sending him back into the ground. The third man manages to get up to his hands and knees, and with a low grunt, Zach gives him a swift kick in the ass, sending his head into the dirt, slumping unconscious. Overhead, a helicopter sounds in the distance, and it mustn't be for the enemy, as I can detect a sense of fear in the body language of the men in black. Zach proceeds to engage the other guards, whilst I lie helpless on the floor, my hands bounds and my bones aching.

"Shizer," the man mutters, turning away from me, facing the oncoming bird in the sky, its rotors slowing down, indicating its want to land near us. In a flash, the man bounds forward towards me, jerks my head to the side revealing my neck, and plunging the needle straight into my jugular vein, eliciting a cry from me. Barely a second passes, before he rips the needle out of my neck and bounds away to the black SUV which is waiting with its engine running. Within seconds I can feel my muscles relaxing, and I slump forward so that once more, I am lying on the floor my face pressed against the cool grass. My face in yanked up, and I look up into the face of Zach. I scrunch my eyebrows together as I notice his hair whipping wildly side to side from the wind generated by the oncoming helicopter. By the way Zach seems indifferent to it, I assume it is friendly rather than foe.

"We're alive," I say, breaking out into a huge smile, which I see replicated in his face. Without warning, he pulls me off the ground and wraps me in his arms tightly, squeezing the little breath I possessed out of me.

"Jesus," I mutter, overwhelmed with his eagerness and the sheer newness of it all. Also, the searing pain that flows through my previously injured shoulder, and the new injuries I had obtained makes me shudder, but I hope Zach is oblivious to it, because to be surrounded by warmth is quite a nice feeling, especially considering the circumstances.

"That's very nice of you, but Zach will do," he says into my hair before releasing me. He extends his arms and I grab onto his hands, allowing me to be pulled up off the ground and to stand up for once in a very long time.

"You good?"

My limbs ache, my vision clouds over with spots, but I persevere through the cloudiness and give him a convincing smile and a nod. I can't see if he believes it, I can barely see through the pain. I am vaguely away of his arm slipping behind my waist, and my arm being slung over his shoulders so that I am leaning on him fully. All I focus on it the black smudge ahead of me, which I hope to God, is the helicopter. I focus on the roaring sound of the rotor blades as they whir above.I focus on keeping my steps even, to convince Zach that I am ok. I can make it to the helicopter. But after what feels like the umpteenth time I have stumbled on my feet, I feel like I don't seem to be doing a great job convincing Zach enough. He comes to a stop, and I do as well. I turn my head to look at him, ignoring that little spark of pain at the base of my skull. Looking into his eyes, I give a stubborn shake of my head. I know where he is going with this look. It is one thing to lean on him – it was quite another to let him bear the whole burden of my fragility.

"You're hurt too," I murmur quietly.

"Yeah, sorry Blondie, that wasn't a request," he replies, his words slipping into a small sigh as he lifts me off my feet. I yelp his name, grabbing onto his shoulders quickly. God, it feels so good to take the weight off my legs and to be surrounded by that warmth once more, cradled against the powerful heat of Zach's chest.

"So is this what it's like to be this tall huh?" I murmur against his chest and feel his chuckle rather than hear it. "You were pretty awesome back there. Thank you," I say, as I close my eyes, no longer resisting the pull to fall asleep.

"I know. It really is exhausting to be so awesome all the time." I smile, and say no more. It takes up too much energy.

"Be careful," I hear Zach say, just before I'm jostled out of his arms and into another pair. This man must be huge because I feel like a baby in his arms. I struggle to open my eyes and I reach out my hand for Zach. I want Newbie.

"Shh," a voice soothes, "Zach just needs to be checked over ok? Everything is fine. You are safe now Cammie. You're safe."

And at those muttered words of assurance, I succumb to unconsciousness.

* * *

**A/N: Well. That was quite intense. Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know! :) **


	11. Chapter 11

Zach's POV

Cammie has been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past 24 hours. Her previously dislocated shoulder that had been fixed was dislocated once more during the car crash, causing nerve damage to her left arm. Unfortunately, we have no idea of the extent of the damage until she wakes up and stays conscious for more than a few minutes. Since she has been out, I have been debriefed on the cock up that was the previous mission. And after long hours of consultation with Joe and the boys, we have concluded something that I would never have thought true. Cameron Ann Morgan is the chameleon. I have turned the thought around in my mind so many times, and it fits and explains all the events that we have thought coincidences over the past few weeks. The Chameleon is a 17-year-old girl, with straw blonde hair and an attitude that could make a monk break their vow of silence. Cammie Morgan. It makes no sense, but at the same time it does. She is an orphan, her parents died in a car crash along a highway after bringing her home from the hospital when she was one day old. Those parents must've been CIA agents. She is a girl. She goes to Gallagher High. She shares the same birthday as the subject. I bang my fist on the desk in Joe's office, creating a resounding thud that echoes around the room and making the pages lying on the desk jump into the air as if scared by my rage. I thought that finding out the identity of the Chameleon would make this easier, and our mission would be simple: protect the girl and hide her from the Circle of Cavan. Unknowingly, taking the girl into the CIA has made this harder. Our focus is no longer finding the identity of the Chameleon, but training her with the sole purpose so that she can protect herself from the Circle. And the Circle of Cavan is a big pain in my ass, but not just mine, the whole of the Department of Defence's big ass. They are a merciless group of fanatics dedicated to making this world better by assassinating those who do not conform to their beliefs. They believe that the world could be made a better place if all the non-conformists to their dictatorial state were eradicated, to leave one leader in charge of the world and degrading the quality of life for those not in the Circle. They were founded by Ioseph Cavan, a ruthless man who attempted to assassinate President Lincoln with a sword, as Lincoln dismissed the Circle and refused to meet their demands of surrender. It was only four months ago when I had returned from Cuba with Grant, after an eight-month operation in which I infiltrated the Circle's secondary base leadership in Havana. It was then I had been shot, during our emergency extraction once we had been discovered as double agents. To this day, we do not know how the Circle knew about us; the C-team are working on it. They still have not been detected in the Havana base. Because we were found, it was absolutely vital we had to be extracted immediately. They have been known to employ cruel torture methods in order to gain gems of information from their prisoners. I watched it happen. I made it happen sometimes. Some things are necessary to complete in order to stay undetected in the field. And so I do them. It's my job. It doesn't mean that it doesn't haunt me at night. 

The Circle of Cavan wants the Chameleon to be their programmed super spy. I grin as I play back the memories of training Cammie, the futile practices and lessons and her uncanny ability to trip over air and get injured so easily. Cammie is by no means a super spy, merely a schoolgirl. Nonetheless they still want her, they know she is the Chameleon; they know her as Cammie. The man knows her as Cammie, and looked at her as if she was his property, as if he claimed her years ago. I grab my hair in frustration and lean my head back as I try to work through the possibilities and answers to the questions that the CIA have. The door bangs open, and I open my eyes to see Grant entering the office with a grim look on his face. 

"The girls are going out."

I grimace, "let them go. I'm guessing you are going to join?"

"Yes. But when I say girls, I mean all of them. Cammie is going as well Zach." 

My grimace deepens. We haven't told Cammie yet that she is the Chameleon. She is in no state to be told that a whole organisation is after her to try and turn her into a personal slave, let alone the fact that her two dead parents were former CIA agents, agents affiliated to the organisation forcing her to become of us and now holding her prisoner. It is essential that Cammie stays within the Pentagon headquarters and have one of the A-team members with her at all times. We cannot lose her, not when it is so obvious that the Circle want her. They will not stop till they get her; it comes with the ruthlessness that all members of the Circle seem to possess.

I stand up, ignoring the sting of pins and needles shooting in my foot, and walk out the door, following Grant down the white walled corridors to the girls' accommodation. As we near an inconspicuous door, I hear the sounds of music being played out loud, and the murmur of chat. Grant gives me a weak smile of what I think is encouragement, before opening the door onto what seems like a bombsite. Clothes are strewn on the floor as well as shoes and make up. Three of the girls were huddled round the single mirror in the room, applying makeup using pointy appliances which look like they do more harm than good. Bex, Liz and Macey are singing loudly, not necessary well, to the song playing from a set of speakers in the corner of the room. I do not recognise the tune, but that is understandable considering I have been confined to a Cuban military base for the past eight months. The girls swing their hips in time to the deafening beat, and I silently chuckle as Preston blatantly ogles Macey's ass. I notice that Cammie isn't with the girls, so I turn around to try and find her. 

Immediately, my eyes see her lying on the bed, her lids closed. She is lying with her hand underneath her head and her ankles crossed at the end of the bed stretching her out. My eyes look her up and down and I will not lie and say that I do enjoy the view. Her hair falls softly around her face in gentle waves, and her face has a subtle amount of make up on. Her eyelashes are darker, no longer their delicate golden colour, but now a striking black, contrast to the paleness of her face. Her bruises and small abrasions on her face have been expertly covered up, making her complexion looking smooth. Following the long column that is her neck, I reach the top of her chest which has a white lacy material stretched across it, following each curve of her body down to the tops of her thighs. They lead to long legs that would otherwise be flawless, except for the bruises adorning them. Each was a myriad of colours, a multi-coloured rainbow palette that covered parts of her legs from her thigh down to her ankles. There are thin straps of red wrapped around her ankles in a criss-cross pattern before leading towards heels that were of a substantial height. I travel back up her body, maybe lingering too long over her hips and breasts, but hey, the dress was made to accentuate what was there, and Cammie definitely has curves there. I look up to her face, still expecting her lids to be closed, but my gaze is met with icy blue eyes, which stare back at me accusingly. She raises one eyebrow up at me in question, and I don't break her stare, instead letting a snide smirk show on my face.

"Wow, you actually have boobs."

Her face scrunches up in disgust and crosses her arms in front of her, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and planting them on the floor. She moves to stand up, but as she does, she misjudges the height of her heels, and launches forward. I catch her in my arms, and pull her flush against me so she can support herself. I can feel her heartbeat pounding against my chest, and because of her added height, her arms can easily encircle my neck as she steadies herself. I bend my head so that it rests in the curve of her neck, the vanilla hints of her perfume surrounding my nose as I inhale.

"No need to throw yourself at me," I whisper in her ear, grazing the soft shell of it with my nose, just to tease her with the tiniest of touch. I feel her shudder, and her fingers grasp my collar behind my neck for a second, before I think she realises what I have just said. She pushes me back slightly so that there is just a thin layer of air between us that is crackling with electricity.

"No Zach, I won't be throwing myself at you, just other guys tonight. Have a good night in."

I cannot stop looking at her lips as she says this; they are so red, a blood red that matches her studded heels.

"No fucking way." I pull back as I appraise her confused face, "you are not allowed out of the Pentagon. Rules are bloody rules Cammie. You are not risking your life, and the life of your associates just because you want to get off for one night. Stop being immature."

Her forehead crinkles as a frown mars her pretty face, and she steps back so that we are no longer close to each other. "For God's sake! I'm sick of the 'Keep Cammie in Fort Knox' plan! I know the bloody Circle of Cavan is after me, and I don't have a goddamn clue why, but I'm not going to live in the Pentagon for the rest of my life, or until the stupid A-team obliterates the hell out of these fricking murderers!" She gestures wildly to me as she continues. "So you," she jabs a fingernail at my chest, "especially you, cannot tell me what the hell to do, when you have basically bloody kidnapped me!"

I purposefully stride back over to her, so close that I can feel the heat from her rage burning into me from those icy blue eyes. "I am your trainer, your supervising officer and therefore you are my responsibility. If you are not ready to go out into the field in five days time, then I will be blamed for your lack of training and lack of will. I will be blamed and punished for the fact that you jeopardized your mission and training so that you could go out one night and act like a stupid girl!"

"Jesus Zach, lay off. We'll be there, Grant, Jonas and I. That's three agents and the Circle are not likely to do anything tonight. We got it bro alright?" Preston comes over to clap my shoulder in reassurance. I look over to him and see him dressed in his black ripped jeans and a white top stretched out over his bulging muscles. It's his typical 'pulling the girls' outfit, and because I have been out with him a lot, I can safely say it is very successful. Meeting his eyes, and then looking back over to Cammie who is fuming, I feel like I have to give in. It will do us no good to become enemies during our training, even more so now when we know that the Circle wants Cammie and the need for her to be fully prepared is greatened. I throw my hands up in the air and storm out of the room, ignoring the shocked looks on the girls face, and the stormy eyes of Cammie on my back. I slam the door behind me so that the sound echoes around the corridor, stunning some innocent people on their way out of the building. I raise my hand in apology, and let out a big sigh. Some part of me knows that if I let Cammie and the girls go with Grant, Preston and Jonas, and if something happens, I will never forgive myself. Plus, Jonas doesn't really count, he only just passed basic training, and he is just on the A-team because of his brains. Don't get me wrong, the guy is an absolute legend and is my brother, but if a fight does happen, then it is really just two main players against the Circle. Grant also has low alcohol tolerance, and I know he will be drinking tonight, and Jonas will probably be in a cleaner's closet with some girl who's face and name he won't remember two hours after the ordeal. They need me there. I turn around in frustration and punch the wall beside the door. Searing pain shoots up my arm, but I don't react to it. I have punched harder things than this wall before. My right hand's bones has been shattered numerous times on missions, when guns have been abandoned and fights are settled using the old fashioned way. I settle my breathing down so that it resembles normality before I open the door into the girl's room again.

"We leave in fifteen minutes. Meet us by the third stairwell. We are all going tonight." 

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**A/N: **

**Hey! So sorry for the long wait, some personal issues prevented me from continuing this fic, however I assure you that _Chance_ is going to be renewed with regular updates hopefully! Leave a review telling me what you think, I would love to hear from you. **

**I would also like to start having someone as a Beta on this story, if you are interested, please PM me! **

**Thanks for reading :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**_Chapter 12_**

Cammie's POV

I've never regarded the stairs of the Pentagon with as much disgust as I do now. I shake my head vehemently and point towards the lift.

"No way am I descending down these stairs with these devils on my feet". I was crying as I put my foot into them.

"Fine," Bex retorts, shaking her curls from side to side. "I swear, one day, I'll get you walking down stairs with the elegance of a princess and the daintiness of a fairy."

I snort, as ladylike as possible, "fat chance." I whisper under my breath and earn a small laugh from Liz. It had taken around three and a half hours to get me into 'pristine' condition. My multiple bruises and cuts had been covered up by foundation and powder, and I have to give to credit to them. I do not look so bad. Underneath my short dress I have a semi-automatic pistol strapped to my thigh. I find it a necessity – I hate feeling useless in situations which concern myself. Looking back on the previous mission, I loathed the feeling of being useless, unable to defend myself, and looking on helplessly whilst Zach fought his way out of the situation for both of us.

Since the failed mission, I have been confined to the infirmary, and have only been discharged this afternoon. It was so nice to have a change of scenery from the stark white walls of the ward and the stern face of the nurse who routinely came into my room at ten minutes past the hour every six hours to deliver pain meds. I was allowed the occasional visitor, but only for an hour a day, and to see another face other than the nurse's was a blessing. I don't think she found my dry humour to her taste. I once commented that her outfit of a starched white cap and stiff black dress with a white apron on made her look like she belonged in a convent. I then proceeded to call her Mother Anne for the rest of the day. She deliberately cut my visiting hours short by ten minutes the following day. She was a joy to be around that is for sure.

My list of injuries is quite impressive, I'm actually quite awestruck by the fact that I have managed to hurt myself in all parts of my body. There isn't a single limb of mine that hasn't been attended to by the nurse. My most serious injury however is my shoulder. Because it has been pulled out of its socket twice in the past two weeks, it has been incredibly weak, and the muscles and nerves surrounding the joint have not yet settled back into their original formations. So when it was dislocated and popped back into place again, a bundle of my nerves were trapped and squashed between the socket and the bone itself, causing severe nerve damage. My shoulder had to be forcibly dislocated in order to release the neurons. Because of this, I can hardly feel my fingers, and I occasionally get shooting sensations of pain down my arm, often leaving me with cramps in my forearms. I am not going to lie, but it bloody hurts, and because it is damage to the nervous system, it is permanent. No amount of physiotherapy will be able to sort out this injury. The current dull ache will fade with time; it is only the product of severe stress to my shoulder, and the spasms will also become irregular and sparse. I have been given Vicodin prescription pills to help control the pain when it does occur. The orange plastic bottle containing my saviour pills are in my red clutch, just in case my arm spasms uncontrollably whilst we are out, and I am left in agony without any relief.

I don't know if any of the girls have been informed as to the lasting effects of my injuries. I don't know whether I want them to know that I am at an even more disadvantage to them, having already missed so many training days. Not to mention my obvious lack of talent and the fact that Zach seems to dislike me on a level which is incomprehensible. I am sure Zach has been informed of my hindrance, and as my supervising officer he must be raging. His trainee just went down the ranks of ability even further. But when we had our first conversation in over a week just earlier, he just shouted at me for being an incompetent fool for wanting to escape my prison for just one night. He didn't even throw a jab at the state of my arm. 

Liz and I walk to the elevator nearby, so that we can reach the third stairwell to meet the guys. As I enter the elevator and the doors close behind us, Liz jumps forwards and wraps me up in a tight embrace, her cheek resting on my shoulder. I instantly wrap my arms around in return and squeeze gently, ignoring the dull ache that's present in my arm.

"You alright Liz?" I question, slightly dazed at this sudden show of affection from the normally quiet girl. I feel her nod, but no reply comes from her mouth. I can guess though. She is torn between the amazement and the danger of the position we are placed in. But knowing Liz, this excites her to no end. The chance, the opportunity that she has right now to reach her potential and stretch herself is unparalleled. The elevator doors open on us, and Liz releases me. I look up to see the boys with Bex and Macey waiting for us. Liz practically skips out of the elevator and stands in front of Jonas, and immediately starts conversing with him in hushed muted tones – a conversation obviously privy to themselves only. She has this beaming smile on her face, and I allow myself to smile a little at her obvious happiness. I walk out of the elevator; careful to avoid the gaps with my heels, otherwise a broken ankle would be added on to my list of injuries. I look up from the floor and I search for Zach, wanting to see if he kept his promise to join us tonight. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to a figure leaning against the wall. A white t-shirt is stretched across his chest, and pair of black jeans are low slung across his lean hips. A black leather jacket is thrown across his shoulders, draping over his frame and cradling his shoulders. His face is clean-shaven, giving him a boyish look with his copper hair messily atop of his head. A pair of piercing green eyes meet mine as I walk towards the group, the green darkening as they follow my every move.

"You move with the speed of a dying snail."

I shoot Zach a sickly sweet smile whilst waving a non-committal hand in his direction, "only for you Newbie." I turn away from Zach who has a smirk on his face, and walk down the corridor, eager to start an evening of fun.

Zach's POV

Alcohol. It is such a simple word for such a complicated substance. Chemistry tells us that it is an organic compound in which a hydroxyl functional group is bound to carbon atom of an alkyl. In real life, alcohol is a poison. It is a parasite. And tonight, Cammie was falling prey to it. I kept a close eye on her as she migrated from bar to dance floor, back and forth, with a filled glass of her choice of poison being quickly drained and then topped up. She danced like wildfire – attractive and unstoppable. Many a male had been attracted to her, and rightly so. Her white outfit made her stand out in a crowd of girls donning black and dark attire, eager to succumb to the dark activities of the night for either fun or escape. Her delicious curves clothed in white served as a beacon that drew in men wanting a taste. They danced, gyrated and touched her, but as soon as she left to go refill her glass, they were gone. I made sure of that. A glance filled with venom thrown their way ensured that they stayed away. They probably thought that she was mine, that I was fortunate to have that girl in white beside me.

Little do they know.

I find Cammie sitting at the wooden bar, her head resting on the surface, her eyes trained on the shot glass in front of her holding the clear liquid. It's water. I paid the barman to make sure that he serves her only water for the rest of the night and morning. He didn't need that much persuading when I showed him the paper notes stashed in my jean pocket.I take the barstool next to her, rapping my knuckles on the surface to alert her to my presence.

"I'm pretty sure it isn't going to magically turn into tequila if you keeps staring at it," I comment, watching as the sides of her reddened lips turn upwards in a small smile.

"I want more alcohol." She states, before she plants her heeled feet on the ground and stands up.

My arms instinctively reach out to steady her; I know her ability to trip over nothing is somewhat of a problem. I hate to see how much of a problem it is when she is thoroughly drunk. "No, Blondie," I retort. "You've had your fun. Let's not ruin a good evening by you becoming unconscious."

Her eyes steel and she throws me a look that clearly said that she didn't like to be doubted, and threw my arms away from her, "I can handle this."

I walk over to her and firmly grasp the tops of her forearms, "you're drunk," I growl into her face.

"Excellent powers of deduction Holmes, now let me the fuck go Zach." When I make no move to release her, she leans forward, so much so that I can feel her sweet breath on my face, tainted slightly by the bitterness of tequila. "I can look after myself, I have a gun on me."

She reaches for my hand and I let her take it. She pulls my hand, clasped in hers, down to her hip covered in lace. I finger the material there, all the while maintaining eye contact on her icy blue eyes. Her eyelashes flutter softly, either from the alcohol in her system, or from the featherlike touch of my fingers on her hip. Our hands travel lower still, until they reach a bump, concealed underneath her dress. I let go of her hand, and trace the strap that travels across her thigh until I feel the cold hard metal of a gun on the inside of her thigh.

"See?" Cammie whispers, her eyes darting down to my lips once and then up to meet my eyes. "I have it sorted."

I cannot help but look at her lips as she says this. Her tongue subconsciously flicks out to wet her lips, and I'm drawn to them glistening in the light flickering above us. I feel like I want to push her back against the wall and find out exactly how long it would take me to reach that damn gun that is holstered at her thigh. We maintain the close distance between us, but my hand travels back up her leg, over the curve of her hip, to rest on her waist, cupping the small of her back preventing her from moving away from me.

"Go Zach, dance, drink, have fun. Fall in love with a girl, forget the CIA. Be normal."

"Blondie, I don't want to be normal. And besides, my one love is myself."

"Ah," her eyes twinkle mischievously, "well at least you don't have to fear rejection."

"Oh, no, not necessarily. I reject myself sometimes just to keep it interesting of course."

A giggle escapes those lips of her again, and she meets my eyes again. Her mouth opens, to say something, but no sound comes out. So instead, I sweep down and capture those lips in mine. Instantly, her hands weave into my hair, tugging gently at the strands, and my other hand joins its pair at her waist, drawing her to me. Her lips are soft and pliant on mine, moving in tandem yet it seems like we are fighting for dominance. It's by no means a sweet kiss, more of a passion filled kiss, with high emotion, whether that be lust or anger I'm not too sure. But as I cup her soft cheek in my hand and slowly release her lips, I can feel my laboured breathing and I can already feel her absence, the cool air stinging where her warmth had been.

Cammie leans her forehead against mine, pushing gently, I'm guessing to keep her grounded. Our breaths mingle, and after a few seconds, I quickly move away from her, leaving her standing against the wall, her confused eyes following me as I join the fringes of the crowd. I don't look back, but instead, seek out a girl that had caught my eye earlier this evening. Within seconds, I see her dancing with her other scantily dressed friends, and I make my way to her. On her body is a pink top with a cleavage so low it's surprising I can't see her bellybutton. I quickly grasp her arm, and she whirls round to face me, her face hardening into a sultry smile as she looks me up and down.

"Hi stranger," she whispers as a fingernail trails down my chest.

Her voice grates my mind, and she leans in, much the way Cammie did a few seconds earlier. But her breath isn't sweet like hers, and her eyes aren't the piercing blue I've come to know. Before these thoughts take root in my mind, I press my lips ferociously against her, focusing on the feel of rough lips allowing me to take full control, submitting to me. I don't like it. But I continue to kiss the girl, my hands groping her curves and trailing up and down her body, appreciating the womanly form. My eyes flutter open for a second, and I look at the girl in front of me, with her eyes closed, and her hands loosely hanging around my neck. And then I flick my eyes over to the side and my heart sinks slightly at the sight that greets me standing just a few feet away.

I see blue.

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**A/N: I had so much fun writing this chapter - let me know what you think!**

**Also, I am still looking for a Beta for this fic, so if you think you would like to, please PM me :)**


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